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Farmer  Holt's  Daughter 


BY 

CHARLES  GARVICE 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SHE  TRUSTED  HIM,"  ETC 


NEW   YORK 

THE  FEDERAL  BOOK  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1901, 
By  F.  M.  LUPTON. 


Farmer  Holt's  Daughter. 


riRMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Turn  we  from  garish  joys  of  town 
To  rippling  stream  and  verdant  down  ; 
Let  us  forget  the  follies  of  the  gay 
And  join  in  rustic  merriments  and  play. 
Love  is  full  sweet,  though  on  the  village  green 
Its  slaves  first  learn  all  that  the  word  doth  mean. 
Life  hath  its  joys  and  meads  for  rustic  hearts, 
Nor  does  it  scorn  to  pierce  them  with  its  darts. 
Let  us,  then,  see,  if  only  for  a  while, 
Life's  drama  played  in  true  bucolic  style. 

My  dear  reader,  if  you  love  the  country,  the  green 
lanes,  greener  trees,  simple  pllSasures,  and  simpler  but 
true-hearted  folk,  take  my  hand — we  have  wandered 
many  a  day  ere  this  and  through  strange  lands,  there- 
fore you  may  trust  me — and  I  will  take  you  from  the 
giddy  world  into  the  sylvan  shades  and  sweet  repose  of 
a  great  farming  county. 

There,  if  it  so  please  you,  you  shall  look  upon  as 
pure  and  high-minded  a  love  as  that  which  our  great- 
forefather  felt  for  our  great-foremother. 

There  you  shall  find  women  who  can  still  blush  and 

2135S31 


4  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

men  who  have  not  yet  discovered  that  truth  is  contemp- 
tible and  honor  fit  only  for  slaves. 

There,  'midst  the  smaller  occurrences  of  such  retired 
life,  you  may  learn,  perhaps,  some  greater  liking  for  un- 
fashionable people,  and  twist  the  phrase  "  only  countiy 
love  "  to  a  new  meaning. 

With  this  preface  let  us  proceed  to  Farmer  Holt. 

Farmer  Holt  was  the  squire  of  Ruby  wood. 

Rubywood  was  the  west  portion  of  an  agricultural 
slope  of  land  lying namongst  the  southern  hills  of  Bucks 
and  Berks. 

Farmer  Holt,  had  he  wanted  to  sell  Rubywood  Farm, 
its  premises  and  tenements,  with  the  land  pertaining, 
would  have  described  it  as  a  land  flowing  with  milk 
and  honey,  and,  allowing  the  necessary  make-weight  for 
metaphorical  description,  he  would  not  have  spoken  far 
from  the  truth. 

The  land  of  Rubywood  was  good — arable  and  pasture. 
There  was  no  more  comfortable  homestead  than  Ruby- 
wood House  in  England ;  the  Holt  cattle  carried  the 
highest  price  in  the  Mondaj'  Sherwood  market,  and  the 
Rubywood  grain  always  rated  at  sixpence  a  bushel  more 
than  the  neighboring  growera'. 

The  reason  for  all  this  lay  in  Farmer  Holt  himself  as 
much  as  in  the  excellence  of  his  land.  He  was  squire, 
as  we  have  said,  but  he  disdained,  or,  at  least,  ignored 
the  title.  The  appellation  of  "  farmer  "  smacked  in  his 
ear  of  the  majesty  of  *'  emperor." 


FAEMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  5 

"  I'm  a  farmer,  that's  what  I  am,"  he  would  say, 
striking  the  thick  oaken  table  in  his  dining-room,  "  and 
I'll  trouble  you  to  call  me  that.  '  Squire  '  is  for  them 
as  likes  it ;  I  don't.  My  father  was  Farmer  Holt  be- 
fore me,  his  father  was  Farmer  Holt  before  him,  and  if 
farmer  was  good  enough  for  them,  I'd  like  to  know  why 
it  ain't  good  enough  for  me  ?  " 

Farmer  by  name  and  nature,  no  man  threw  himself 
so  heartily  into  the  routine  of  his  business,  no  man  put 
so  much  of  himself  into  his  work  as  did  Farmer  Holt. 

"Want  a  thing  done,  give  it  to  somebody  else  and 
pay  another  man  to  stand  by  and  watch  him  not  do  it. 
Want  a  thing  done  well,  do  it  yourself,  or  stand  by  and 
see  that  it  is  done." 

On  this  principle  Farmer  Holt  walked  through  life, 
sowing,  reaping,  breeding,  shearing,  selling.  He  always 
did  what  was  to  be  done  himself,  or  saw  that  it  was 
done. 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  if  you  were  within  a 
mile  of  Ruby  wood,  say  on  the  hill  that  rose  like  a  bear's 
head  behind  the  homestead,  you  would  see  Farmer  Holt 
tramping  across  the  twenty-acre,  waking  his  men  up  in 
the  straw  yard,  or  overseeing  in  the  threshing-barn,  as 
surely  as  you  would  see  the  smoke  winding  away  from 
the  broad  chimneys  that  struggled  through  the  roof  of 
thatch. 

Being  such  a  man,  so  firm,  so  steadfast,  so  thorough, 
it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  for  ten  miles,  and 


6  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

for  much  farther  round  Rubywood,  Farmer  Holt  was 
esteemed  and  respected. 

Great  county  magnates,  when  they  came  flustering 
down  from  smoky  London  to  canvass  the  district,  went 
hat  in  hand  straight  to  Farmer  Holt  to  beg  for  his  vote 
and  interest ;  and,  if  they  were  Tories,  they  got  it ;  if 
not,  if  they  happened  to  be  rascally  Whigs  or  scoun- 
drelly Radicals — as  Farmer  Holt  called  them — why, 
they  stood  a  very  good  chance  of  something  more  sub- 
stantial— say,  in  the  shape  of  a  cart  whip  or  the  great 
pump  in  the  straw  yard. 

Though  hard  featured  and  sharp  of  eye,  sharp,  too, 
of  tongue  sometimes,  he  was  kind  of  heart,  and  his 
people,  man,  woman,  and  child,  loved  him. 

When  they  were  strong  and  able,  he  made  them  work, 
and  hard  too  ;  but  when  they  were  old,  down  in  sick- 
ness, or  weary  with  trouble,  he  shielded,  helped,  and 
comforted  them,  like  the  true  feudal  lord  he  was. 

Agricultural  agitators — if  there  were  any  in  the  days 
of  which  we  write — were  careful  to  avoid  Rubywood, 
and  so,  perchance,  avoided,  at  the  same  time,  the  horse- 
pond  on  the  village  green. 

Farmer  Holt's  portrait,  done  in  oils,  most  execrably, 
hangs  in  the  parlor  of  the  "  King's  Arms,"  and,  if  you 
want  to  see  the  man,  you  cannot  do  better  than  con- 
sult it. 

Rather  short,  rather  stout,  rather  good  looking,  but 
very,  very  firm ;  red  of  complexion  with  clean-shavea 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  7 

face,  and  a  mouth  that  shows  some  sign  of  grim  humor 
in  the  little  curves  at  the  corners ;  eyes  clear  gray,  and 
oh,  so  sharp !  Many  and  many  a  skulker  has  wished 
those  eyes  dim  or  asleep,  when  the  farmer's  hand  awoke 
him  from  a  nap  in  which  the  far-seeing  orbs  had  de- 
tected him.  One  of  the  old  school  in  face  and  dress. 
A  dark-blue  cutaway  coat  forms  his  upper  garment, 
gaiters  serviceable  and  of  fawny  hue,  and  irreproach- 
ables  of  that  style  which  Lord  John  Russell  declared 
belonged  exclusively  to  the  squirearchy. 

Farmer  Holt  was  a  wealthy  man,  and  of  all  his  pos- 
sessions he  rated  his  daughter,  Muriel,  the  highest. 

She  was  the  farmer's  "  woldest  and  wonly  daughter  " 
— indeed,  his  only  child,  and  next  to  his  farm,  perhaps 
before  it,  her  father  loved  her  best  of  all  things  on 
earth. 

There  is  no  picture  of  Muriel  Holt,  so  we  must  imag- 
ine her. 

Please,  then,  to  fancy  a  maiden  of  medium  height, 
neither  thin  nor  adipose,  but  of  true,  maidenly  sub- 
stance, a  fair,  oval  face,  with  well-formed  mouth — 
though  rather  large,  as  all  expressive  mouths  are — small 
dainty  Cupid  bows  are  for  wax  dolls  and  women  with- 
out ideas — a  straight,  aquiline  nose,  and  eyes  very 
dove-like,  and  yet  harboring  a  faint  suspicion  of  mis- 
chief;  eyes  with  just  that  twinkle  in  them  that  pro- 
claims their  owner  not  quite  dove  nor  altogether  mag- 
pie, but  a  descriptiou  of  medium  which  no  bird  hath 
yet  been. 


a  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Those  eyes,  to  say  nothing  of  the  expressive  mouth, 
had  done  great  execution  at  Rubywood,  but  they  had 
as  yet,  like  talismanic  charms,  preserved  their  mistress 
from  harm. 

Muriel  Holt  had  a  heart — that  fact  the  eyes  were 
bail  for — but  it  was  as  yet  all  her  own,  though  swains 
had  cried  and  town  gentlemen  had  sighed,  tears  and 
upheavings  of  the  manly  breast  were  all  in  vain. 

Muriel  was  heart  whole  and  invulnerable  to  any  of 
the  darts  which  love  had  as  yet  fired  at  her. 

Mrs.  Holt  had  died  five  years  after  Muriel's  birth. 
Now  Muriel  kept  house  for  her  father,  and  was  called 
"  mistress  "  by  the  servants,  and  obeyed  as  such  pretty 
nearly  as  implicitly  as  was  the  farmer  himself. 

In  cataloguing  my  heroine,  I  had  forgotten  to  add 
that  she  possessed  that  great  rarity,  a  pretty,  musical 
voice — speaking  voice,  I  mean — which  is  as  delicious 
to  the  ear  as  the  singing  one ;  and  that  she  had  all  that 
grace  which  belongs  to  youth  when  it  is  added  to 
strength  and  health. 

It  was  a  revelation  and  a  liberal  education  to  the 
finer  senses  to  see  the  young  girl  at  her  duties  of  the 
breakfast  table,  and  the  farmer,  as  he  strode  into  the 
small  parlor  which  did  duty  as  a  morning  room  at  the 
farm,  paused  at  the  table  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  to 
look  at  her. 

It  was  a  fine  spring  morning,  and  the  sun  poured  in 
through  the  window  and  lit  up  the  golden-bronzed 
braids  of  Muriel's  hair. 


FAKMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  9 

«*  Well,  lass,"  said  her  father,  "  you  look  as  fresh  as 
t'  fields." 

"  That's  a  poor  compliment,  father,"  laughed  Muriel, 
showing  her  white,  even  teeth  through  her  gates  of  red 
coral.     "  The  fields  are  ratlier  dirty  after  the  rains." 

"Dirty?"  exclaimed  the  father,  dropping  into  the 
stout  beech  chair  with  a  passive  force  that  would  have 
smashed  furniture  of  an  advertising  house  to  smith- 
ereens. "  Dirty !  They're  never  dirty,  lass.  The 
loam's  as  precious  as  gold.  Would  ye  have  it  dry  as 
road  dust  and  perish  t'  grain?  Where's  that  loafing 
Jane  o'  yours?  She  a-near  broke  my  shins  with  her 
coalscuttle  again.  Drat  the  girl !  She'll  never  a  done 
till  she's  broke  my  neck,  I  do  believe." 

Muriel  made  a  gesture  of  annoyance  through  the 
smile. 

This  Jane,  alluded  to  so  irately,  was  a  new  house- 
maid, who  had  contracted,  presumably  at  her  last  place, 
an  inveterate  habit  of  depositing  the  coalscuttle  in  un- 
likely places  while  she  ran  on  other  business. 

The  farmer  knocked  his  shins  against  or  stumbled 
over  that  coalscuttle  on  the  average  six  times  a  day. 

"  And  wear's  t'  bacon  ?  "  asked  the  farmer. 

"  Here,  father,"  said  Muriel,  lifting  the  cover  from  a 
dish  of  that  comestible,  which  smoked,  not  in  thin, 
tissue  rashers,  but  in  good,  solid,  stomach-comforting 
slices,  which  the  London  cockney  knoweth  not  of. 

The  farmer  helped  himself  to  a  huge  slice  of  the  ham, 


10  FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

then  as  bountifully  served  Muriel,  received  his  cup  of 
coffee  with  a  "  Thankee,  my  dear  lass,"  and  set  to  work 
heartily,  as  a  man  should  do  who  has  been  trudging 
over  thick  fields  for  two  hours. 

The  bird,  a  pet  canary,  chirped  loudly  and  cheerfully. 

Snip,  Muriel's  dog — who  could  do  everything  but 
speak,  and  only  refrained  from  that  because  he  knew 
that  if  he  exercised  his  latent  talent  Farmer  Holt  would 
put  him  to  work  directly — sat  up  and  begged,  and  oc- 
casionally gave  vent  to  a  sharp,  dismal  howl. 

The  fire  crackled  and  the  kettle  hissed  in  accord  ;  all 
was  harmony  and  comfort. 

Presently  the  farmer  looked  up  from  the  demolition 
of  the  bacon,  and,  wiping  his  mouth  on  an  immense 
crimson  silk  handkerchief,  that  would  have  served  as  a 
flag  for  a  matador  in  a  Spanish  bull-fight,  said : 

"  Lass,  I  just  met  young  Heatherbridge." 

Simple  words,  yet  Muriel  colored  at  them. 

Young  Alfred  Heatherbridge  lived  at  the  Howe,  and 
was  one  of  her  lovers. 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel.     "And  what  has  he  to  say ? " 

"  Not  much,"  said  the  farmer,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"  He's  like  the  sailor's  parrot,  a  quiet  one,  but  I  dunuo 
whether  he  thinks  the  more.  But  he's  a  straight  youth 
and  a'  says  what  he  has  to  say  pleasantly,  not  like  that 
cockney  chap  in  t'  cottage,  who  never  opens  his  ugly 
mouth  without  some  foreign  word  or  fly-away  expres- 
sion that  nobody  understands  but  himself." 


FAEMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  11 

Again  Muriel  blushed,  for  the  same  reason.  Mr. 
Calcot  Vandike  was  another  of  her  lovers. 

"  Mr.  Vandike  is  very  pleasant,  too,  father,"  said 
Muriel. 

The  farmer  growled. 

"  Yes,  soft  and  silky,  like  that  new  gown  o'  yours. 
I  hate  your  fine  London  gentlemen,  all  purr  like  a 
tom-cat,  and  snigger  like  a  barn-door  rooster.  Give  me 
another  cup  of  coffee,  dear  lass." 

"  And  so  Mr.  Heatherbridge  had  nothing  to  say  for 
himself,"  remarked  Muriel.     "  No  news  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ay,  I'd  forgot ;  that  London  chap  put  it  out  o' 
my  head.  Young  Heatherbridge  had  news — riglit  good 
news  for  the  Dexter  people.     The  Holme's  let." 

"  You  don't  say  !  "  exclaimed  Muriel.  "  After  re- 
maining empty  so  long !  Poor,  deserted  old  place ; 
how  glad  it  must  be  !  " 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  D'ye  think  the  old  house  can 
feel,  lass,  like  a  human  creetur  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  father.  Sometimes  I  think 
they  can ;  houses  and  carts  and  churches,  and  that 
sort  especially  when  they're  old — they  look  so  know- 
ing." 

She  laughed  merrily,  then  ran  on  blithely  as  a  bird 
chirruping  over  her  odd  fancy : 

"  Look  at  the  Holme  now  !  I  never  pass  it  but  I 
seem  to  think  the  old  dust-stained,  broken  windows  are 
eyes  crying  and  that  the  old  door  off  its  hinges  is  the 


13  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

mouth  speaking  out    *  Will  anybody  come  and  live  in 
me  ?    Please,  somebody,  do ! '" 

The  squire  laughed  and  threw  himself  back  in  his 
chair  with  tremendous  force. 

'*  You've  a  strange  head,  lass.     I  do  think  you've  got 
that  the  matter  with  you  the  painter  chap  was  purring 
about — genius,  didn't  he  call  it  ?     Fancy  the  old  Holme  . 
with  eyes  and  mouth  !     Ha !  ha  ! " 

"  Well,  never  mind,  father,  I'd  rather  you'd  laugh  at 
me  than  cry  for  me  ;  and  as  to  the  genius,  well,  that's 
one  of  the  foolish  things  you  blame  Mr.  Vandike 
for  talking  about,  you  know.  And  so  the  Holme's 
let  I " 

"  Ay,  house  and  land — long  lease,  too,  and  good  rent. 
So  we'll  have  a  neighbor,  lass,  at  last." 

"  Let  us  hope  a  pleasant  one." 

*'  Amen ! "  responded  Farmer  Holt. 

*'  And  who  has  taken  it,  father  ?  " 

"  A  man  by  the  name  of  Leigh." 

"  Young  or  old  ?  " 

"  Young,"  said  the  farmer ;  "  leastwaj-^s  I  reckon  him 
such.  He  comes  from  the  north.  His  father  and 
mother  a'  just  died  there." 

"Poor  young  man  !  "  said  Muriel  softly,  her  pitiful 
heart  full  of  sympathy  directly. 

"Ay,  died  and  left  him  not  o'er  rich,  they  say,  and 
his  taking  the  Holme  proves  it." 

Muriel  nodded." 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  13 

"  To  make  a  living  there  one  needs  to  work  hard, 
father,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Ay,  morn,  noon  and  night,  lass,"  replied  the  farmer 
standing  up  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  turning  over 
the  leaves  of  the  Agricultural  Almanac.  "  Morn,  noon 
and  night.  It's  a  poor  place,  and  nobody  ever  pros- 
pered there.  Old  Scroggius  starved  the  land,  the  tim- 
ber which  the  Dexters  won't  cut  down  cumbers  the 
ground,  and  the  sheds  ain't  fit  for  a  jackal,  leave  alone 
a  kindly  heifer." 

"Poor  young  man!"  said  Muriel,  again.  "And 
when  is  he  coming,  father  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  young  Heatherbridge  met  him  in  the 
market  yesterday,  and  he  mentioned  accidentally  that 
he'd  taken  the  Holme  and  meant  to  be  a  neighbor." 

"  Is  he  good  looking  ?  "  asked  Muriel. 

"  I  didn't  ask  Heatherbridge,"  said  the  farmer,  dryly. 
"  We  don't  ask  the  color  of  other  men's  eyes,  or  if  their 
mouths  are  cut  on  the  square ;  we  leave  that  to  your 
kind,  lass.  Besides,  what  does  it  matter  to  ye  if  he  be 
good  looking  or  ill  favored?" 

"  Nothing,  indeed,  father,"  laughed  Muriel,  "  only 
that  as  I  shall  see  him,  no  doubt,  every  time  I  put  my 
head  out  of  door  or  window,  I'd  ratlier  he  were  well 
favored.  Another  cup  of  coffee  ?  No  ?  Then  I'll 
ring  for  Jane.  You'd  like  a  strawberry  roly-poly  pud- 
ding to-day,  father  ?  " 

"  Ay,  lass,  anything.     Now,  girl,"  this  to  Jane,  "  do 


14  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ee  take  that  confounded  scuttle  out  o'  the  doorway.  Do 
ee  ever  fall  over  it  yourself,  I  wonder  ?  No,  I'll  go  bail 
you  don't,  or  ye'd  have  more  regard  for  other  folk's 
shins." 

And  with  a  sharp  nod  of  his  head  out  strode  Farmer 
Holt  to  count  off  twenty  sheep  for  next  day's  market. 

Muriel  tripped  off  to  the  kitchen,  rolled  up  the  sleeves 
of  her  dainty  morning  dress  to  the  elbows  of  her  white, 
shapely  arms,  and  plunged  with  great  fervor  and  ear- 
nestness into  the  composition  of  the  strawberry  roly- 
poly. 

Presently  there  came  a  tap  at  the  kitchen  door,  fol- 
lowed by  an  uplifting  of  the  latch,  and  finally  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  good  but  rather  lazy-looking  face  in  the 
opening  between  the  door  and  lintel. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  asked  the  visitor. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Muriel,  "  if  you  are  not  afraid  of 
flour,  Mr.  Vandike." 

And  the  owner  of  the  head  conveyed  it  and  his  bony, 
velvet-clad  body  in  by  means  of  a  pair  of  long  legs. 

Mr.  Vandike,  as  Mr.  Holt  described  him,  was  an  ar- 
tist. He  was  staying  at  the  cottage  attached  to  the 
town  farm,  as  that  portion  of  the  Holt  establishment 
which  was  situated  in  the  village  was  called,  professedly 
to  paint  studies  from  life  for  the  London  picture  dealers, 
but  in  reality  to  loaf  about,  flirt  with  the  prettiest  village 
girls  and  make  too-warm  artistic  love  to  beautiful 
Muriel  Holt. 


FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  15 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  flour,  Miss  Muriel,"  he  said,  lean- 
ing against  a  projection  near  the  window  and  making 
himself  comfortable.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  flour,  and, 
mind,  that's  saying  more  than  appears  on  the  surface. 
I  know  some  swells  who  would  rather  face  gunpowder 
than  a  flour  dredger,  especially  when  they  are  got  up 
for  the  morning  park." 

Muriel  paused  in  her  manipulation  of  the  dough  and 
looked  over  her  shoulder  at  him  with  a  laugh. 

"  Swells  I  What  are  they  ?  What  queer  words  you 
use,  Mr.  Vandike  !  Morning  park,  too  !  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  they  have  two  parks  in  London,  one  for  the 
morning  and  another  for  the  afternoon  ?  " 

"Ah I  you're  quizzing  me,  Miss  Holt,"  replied  the 
artist,  lifting  his  eyeglass,  fixing  it  into  his  left  eye  and 
looking  mournful  as  well  as  the  necessary  grimace 
would  let  him.  You're  a  dreadful  quiz.  By  Jove  !  I 
think  you  are  always  laughing  at  me.  I  say,  what  a 
delicious  picture  you  would  make  !  " 

"  Thank  you.  That's  above  my  ambition.  Father 
will  be  better  pleased  if  I  make  a  delicious  pudding." 

"  Such  lights,  with  that  flour  about  you,  such  a  de- 
licious shadow  !  Really,  Miss  Holt,  you  can't  imagine 
what  a  delightful  model  you  make." 

"  Oh  !  I  see,"  said  Muriel.  "  It's  a  compliment  you 
are  meaning.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Vandike."  And  with  a 
roguish  smile  she  dropped  him  a  courtesy.  "  Perhaps 
you  will  sketch  me  on  your  thumbnail,  or  on  the  shutter 


16  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

yonder;  here's  a  piece  of  whitening.  Oh,  Mr.  Vandike, 
how  many  times  you  have  said  that  same  thing.  You 
must  really  go  up  to  London  and  buy  another  compli- 
ment for  me,  this  poor  piece  of  flattery  is  quite  thread- 
bare, you  have  worn  it  quite,  quite  out." 

Mr.  Vandike  sighed  and  laughed. 

*'  Well,  really,  Miss  Holt,  it's  the  truth,  and  you  don't 
know  how  hard  it  is  to  refrain  from  sketching  you. 
But  there,  you  have  forbidden  me,  haven't  you?  and  I 
cannot  but  obey.  By  the  way,  how  do  you  get  the  jam 
into  that  pudding  ?  Hem  !  Ah  !  I  see.  How  absurd, 
of  course — spread  it  on  like  that  and  then  roll  it  round. 
Of  course.  I  sha'n't  be  so  ready  to  laugh  next  time  I 
hear  the  anecdote  about  King  George  wondering  how 
the  apple  got  into  the  dumpling.  I  say,  I'm  sorry  that 
Mr.  Holt  is  savage  about  that  pig." 

*'  What  pig  ?  "  queried  Muriel,  spreading  out  the 
pudding  cloth. 

'•  Oh,  don't  you  know  ?  A  wretched  pig — one  of 
those  black  little  dev — I  mean  fellows  that  squeak 
about  the  straw  yard.  He  got  out  somehow  or  other, 
and  finished  up  a  pot  of  paint  I'd  put  outside  the  cot- 
tage to  air.  It  disagreed  with  him  it  seems.  Veiy 
rum  that  though,  isn't  it  ?  I  thought  a  pig  could  eat 
anything  ! " 

"  Save  the  stuff  you  compose  your  pictures  of,  Mr. 
Vandike,"  said  Muriel  demurely. 

"Ah,  you're   quizzing  me  again,  I  really  believe,*' 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEB.  17 

muttered  tile  artist  exquisite.  "  Well,  the  squire — I 
beg  his  pardon,  Farmer  Holt — thinks  it  hard  for  his 
pig  to  die,  and  says  so  to  me — to  me,  who  am  filled 
with  despair  at  the  loss  of  my  only  pot  of  sienna,  my 
only  pot,  and  this  is  how  many  miles  from  London  ?" 

"  What  sienna  is  I  don't  know.  What  do  you  use  it 
for — trees  ?  " 

"  Trees  !     No  ;  cows  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  come,"  said  Muriel,  consolingly,  "  there  are 
different  sorts  of  cows,  you  know.  You  must  paint 
them  all  red  and  black  and  white,  till  some  more  sienna 
comes  down.     I  thought  sienna  was  a  sort  of  medicine." 

Mr.  Vandike  groaned.  What  a  pity  it  was  that  this 
beautiful  Phyllis  was  not  more  artistic. 

"  And  now  you've  done  ?  "  he  said,  as  she  tied  the 
pudding  up. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  boil  it,"  said  Muriel,  "  and  then 
it  will  be  done,  too." 

"  And  then  Farmer  Holt  will  eat  it  and  it  will  be 
done  FOR,"  said  the  London  wit. 

Muriel  laughed. 

*'  No,"  she  said,  not  four,  but  ate  ! " 

"  Oh,  come,"  he  retorted,  "  you've  beat  me  at  puns ; 
I'm  afraid  of  you.  Will  you  come  into  the  garden — 
the  larks  are  up  and  soaring?  Do  come  for  one 
turn  ! " 

"  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  "  I'm  too  busy — 
besides,"  glancing  through  the  window,  "here's  Mr. 


18  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Heatherbridge  coining  up  the  path,  he  will  keep  you 
company.     Good-by." 

And  with  a  merry  laugh  she  ran  from  the  kitchen, 
and  so  gave  both  her  lovers  the  slip. 


FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEE.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

If  I  speak  to  thee  in  friendship's  name 

Thou  think'st  I  speak  too  coldly  ; 
If  I  mention  love's  devoted  flame, 

Thou  say'st  I  speak  too  boldly. 

Mr.  Alfred  Heatherbridge  was  master  of  the 
Howe,  and  farmed  about  nine  hundred  acres,  some  of 
them  running  parallel  with  Farmer  Holt's. 

Nine  hundred  acres  represented  a  tolerable  capital, 
therefore  Mr.  Alfred  might  be  considered  a  wealthy 
man,  as  men  went  in  that  agricultural  district,  and  in 
every  way  an  eligible  suitor  for  Miss  Muriel's  hand. 

Generally  the  match  was  considered  as  good  as  made, 
but  as  yet,  though  Farmer  Holt  could  have  no  objec- 
tion to  the  arrangement,  Mr.  Heatherbridge  had  not 
asked  Miss  Muriel  for  her  opinion,  and  the  young  lady 
was  so  discreet  and  uncommunicative  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  guess  what  opinion  she  held. 

Between  Mr.  Vandike  and  the  young  landowner  of 
course  there  was  no  love  lost. 

The  artist  called  the  young  farmer  a  man  without 
ideas,  and  the  young  farmer  called  the  painter  a  loafing 
manufacturer  of  daubs. 


20  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

This  morning  they  nodded  and  smiled  as  men  do  who 
dislike  each  other  and  are  yet  compelled  to  be  polite, 
and  Mr.  Vandike,  as  he  stretched  himself  and  prepared 
to  vacate  his  position,  said  : 

"  Fine  morning  ;  Farmer  Holt's  out " 

"  I  want  to  see  Miss  Holt,"  said  young  Heatherbridge, 
thinking  Mr.  Vandike  might  have  kept  the  information 
till  he  was  asked  for  it. 

"  And  she's  very  busy,"  said  the  artist,  "  just  run 
away  up-stairs.  Hope  you  may  get  her.  Good  morn- 
ing ;  I'm  going  to  make  a  study  of  these  old  beeches. 
Glorious  lights  across  the  tops.  Oh,  I  forgot,  though, 
you  don't  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,"  and,  with  a  cool 
nod,  but  an  aggravating  one,  the  London  dandy  strolled 
away. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge,  very  red  in  the  face,  and  mut- 
tering, "  Confound  that  jackanapes's  insolence.  '  Study 
of  the  beeches  ! '  His  impudence  is  study  enough  for 
other  folk.     Is  Miss  Muriel  here  ?  " 

"  No,  she  beant,  sir,"  replied  Jane,  smiling  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  question,  considering  that,  unless  her 
mistress  had  been  up  the  wide  chimney,  Mr.  Heather- 
bridge could  not  have  failed  to  have  seen  her  had  she 
been  in  the  kitchen. 

"  Will  you  tell  her  I  want — that  is,  I  should  like  a 
word  with  her  ?  " 

"Yes,  I'll  tell  her,"  said  Jane,  and  leaving  Mr. 
Heatherbridge  standing  at  the  gate,  she  ran  up-stairs  to 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  21 

acquaint  her  young  mistress  of  the  arrival  of  lover 
No.  2. 

•'  Oh,  dear,"  sighed  Muriel,  "  I  wish  they  wouldn't 
come  in  the  morning  when  I'm  so  busy.  It's  rather 
nice  in  the  afternoon,  because  one  can  sew  and  work 
on  while  they  are  fidgeting,  but  in  the  morning — oh ! 
Jane,  don't  you  think  he'll  go  if  I  say  I'm  very 
busy  ?  " 

"  That  I'm  sure  he  won't,  miss,"  said  Jane,  shaking 
her  head.  "  I  know  it  by  the  looks  of  him.  Besides, 
he's  just  run  up  against  Mr.  Vandike,  and  it's  made  him 
angry  like.     He  do  look  as  obstinate  as  the  old  piebald 

pig- 
Muriel  laughed. 

"  There,  I'll  see  him,  and  do  you  make  this  bed.  If 
I  don't  come  up  in  five  minutes,  call  me — loudly, 
mind,"  and,  laughing  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  human 
piebald  pig,  she  ran  down  the  house  stairs  into  the 
kitchen. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  came  forward  with  his  hand  out- 
stretched and  a  look  of  undisguised  admiration  on  his 
still  rather  flushed  face. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  called  you  away — I'm  afraid  you're 
busy,  Miss  Holt?" 

"Well,  I  am  rather,"  she  said,  candidly,  but  not 
coldly. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  then,  smitten  with  lovers'  nervousness, 
hesitated,  struck  his  leg  with  his  walking-stick,  looked 


22  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

at  the  ceiling  and  then,  as  if  in  desperation,  at  her  wait- 
ing face  again.  "I've  looked  in  about  the  calf,"  he 
said. 

"  The  calf  ?  "  she  repeated.     "  What  calf  ?  " 

Then,  seeing  the  look  of  great  disappointment  which 
her  forgetfulness  had  produced,  she  added,  quickly  : 

"  Oh,  I  remember.     Thank  you  so  much." 

"  Yes,  it's  doing  well,  and  looks  healthy,  and  I  just 
come  in  to  say  that  I've  driven  it  into  the  yard,  and  if 
you  will  be  kind  enough  to  accept  it " 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  that  I  will !  "  said  Muriel,  accept- 
ing the  gift  as  freely  as  it  was  offered.  "  How  very 
kind  of  you.  Such  a  dear,  pretty-colored  thing,  and 
an  Alderney,  too.  I  did  so  long  for  an  Alderney. 
How  very  kind  of  you.  I'll  run  down  and  see  it 
directly." 

"  Now  ?  "  said  Mr,  Heatherbridge,  eagerly. 

*'  Well,  no,  not  this  minute,"  said  Muriel,  knowing  or 
dreading  if  she  ran  down  to  the  yard  with  Mr.  Heather- 
bridge  to  see  the  gift  that  she  might  say  good-by  to  all 
work  for  the  remainder  of  the  morning.  "No,  not 
directly;  I  am  at  work.  You  won't  mind,  will  you? 
Father's  gone  down  to  the  sheep." 

But  Mr.  Heatherbridge  had  not  come  to  see  "  father,'* 
and  he  stood  staunchly  and  stared  at  her. 

"  I'd  hoped  you  would  come  down,  Miss  Holt,  for  I 
wanted  to  say  a  word  to  you." 

Muriel  leaned  against  the  table  and  looked  up  into  hia 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  23 

face.  As  yet  she  had  no  idea  of  what  the  something 
was." 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  then  quickly,  "  Oh,  will  you  not 
sit  down.  It  is  so  rude  of  me  not  to  have  asked  you  be- 
fore.    Do  sit  down." 

So  Mr.  Heatherbridge  very  unwisely  sat  down,  for  to 
commence  a  proposal  on  your  feet  and  then  to  change 
your  position  is  to  lose  the  thread  of  your  argument. 
Besides,  you  are  at  a  disadvantage  sitting  in  a  low  chair 
and  looking  up  pathetically  at  a  girl's  bright  face  three 
feet  above  you. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  felt  this,  but  he  persevered.  He 
had  come  down  to  the  house  half  inclined  to  say  the 
momentous  something,  only  half  inclined ;  but  Mr. 
Vandike,  and  Mr.  Vandike's  impudence,  had  tilted  the 
balance,  and  now  he  was  determined  to  go  through  with 
it  and  snatch  his  mistress  from  every  such  jackanapes. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you,"  he  commenced. 
"  Indeed " — (indeed  was  a  favorite  word  with  Mr. 
Heatherbridge) — "  indeed  to  ask  you  a  question.  Mu — 
I  mean  Miss  Holt — cannot  you  guess  what  it  is  ?  " 

Indeed  Muriel  could,  and  she  turned  first  hot,  then 
cold. 

Was  the  man  actually  going  to  ask  her  to  marry 
him. 

With  the  rapidity  of  a  flash  of  lightning  she  asked 
herself  the  question : 

"Do  I  love  him?  " 


U  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

And  with  like  rapidity  was  she  herself  answered : 

**  No,  you  do  not." 

She  stared  at  him  with  a  pained  expression  growing 
on  her  face,  which  intensified  as  he  continued,  rising 
now,  and  so  bringing  his  good-looking  face  above  hers. 

"  Muriel,  I  came  to  ask  you  the  most  important  ques- 
tion a  young  fellow  can  ask  a  girl.  We  have  known  each 
other  for  a  good  many  years — no,  not  that  exactly,  for  of 
course  you're  not  very  old — not  old  at  all,  indeed,"  he 
stumbled.  "  I  mean  to  say  that  we  have  known  each  other 
since  we  were  children.  We  know  each  other's  tempers, 
and  we  know  each  other's — that  is,  not  faults,  for  you 
haven't  any " 

Here  Muriel  shook  her  head  sadly,  but  very  decisively. 

"  And  I  came  to  ask  you,  remembering  all  this,  if  you 
think  you  could " 

"  Miss  Muriel !  Miss  Muriel !  "  shrieked  the  obedi- 
ent Jane. 

Muriel  blessed  the  simple  handmaiden  from  her  very 
heart,  and,  drawing  a  long  breath,  put  out  her  hand  to 
stop  him. 

"  Forgive  me  I  Don't  say  any  more.  Let  me  go  back. 
Jane  is  calling — she  wants  me  perhaps."  (It  went  very 
much  against  her  to  tell  a  direct  falsehood,  though,  like 
most  women,  she  did  not  scruple  at  the  whiter  kind  of 
deception.)     Let  me  go,  please.     I — I " 

'*  Miss  Muriel  I  Miss  Muriel !  "  shouted  the  dutiful 
Jane. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  25 

"  There,  I  must  go  ! "  said  Muriel,  and,  with  a  plead- 
ing glance  for  forgiveness,  she  darted  away  from  him 
and  sped  up  the  staircase. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  sighed,  put  on  his  hat,  and,  like  a 
sensible  young  man,  walked  out. 

*'  Little  witch,"  he  muttered.  "  I  don't  know  whether 
she  loves  me  or  she  doesn't.  Thought  she  didn't,  at 
fii'st,  but  then  girls  are  so  coy  !  Aunt  Betsy  says  they 
want  a  lot  of  wooing ;  and  then  she'd  have  given  me  the 
*  no 'straight  away,  instead  of  bolting.  Little  witch! 
Oh,  I  feel  all  right.  She  can't  make  a  better  match,  and 
I've  got  the  old  boy  on  my  side,  too.  Yet  I  wish  she'd 
say  yes,  then  I  could  come  it  over  that  idiot  of  a  painter. 
By  Sampson,  when  I  have  got  her  I'll  let  her  underst'end 
I  want  her  to  give  the  cold  shoulder  to  such  chaps  as  him. 
There  he  is,  the  idiot,  making  a  study  of  the  trees. 
Trees  and  horses  and  cows  on  canvas  !  He'd  be  a  better 
man  if  he'd  got  'em  in  his  pocket,"  and,  with  a  sneer 
quite  lost  on  the  artist,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  his 
work,  and  whistling  the  scenery  out  of  countenance — 
Mr.  Heatherbridge  trudged  past  on  liis  way  to  the 
Holme. 

As  for  Muriel,  she  sank  upon  the  newly  made  bed  and 
gasped  for  breath. 

Alfred  Heatherbridge  had  actually  asked  her  to  be  his 
■wife — or  very  nearly  ! 

What  was  to  come  of  it  ?  How  could  she  say  no  ?  and 
yet  she  felt  that  she  could  not — nay,  would  not  say  yes. 


^  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

And  her  father  ?  Though  she  had  never  mentioned 
the  subject  directly  or  by  way  of  hint,  still  she  had  a 
presentiment  that  a  "  Yes  "  would  please  him  and  a 
*'  No  "  give  him  disappointment. 

"  And  yet  I  can't  say  '  Yes,'  can  I,  Jane  ? "  she 
sighed. 

"What  to,  miss?"  queried  Jane,  who,  utterly  igno- 
rant of  her  mistress's  thoughts,  had  been  standing  sur- 
veying her,  and  wondering  why  she  should  be  so  beauti- 
ful while  other  folk — she  herself,  for  instance — were  so 
plain. 

"  To — nothing  ;  there,  run  away,  girl.  I'll  tidy  the 
room  and — and " 

Here  as  Jane  took  her  departure  she  broke  off  and 
burst  into  silent  tears. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,"  says  Tennyson,  and  very  thought- 
lessly. No  tears  are  idle ;  to  women  they  are  the  chan- 
nel for  the  relief  of  all  sorts  of  vagaries  and  passionate 
emotions.  Tears  are  women's  best  weapons,  and  in  some 
cases — Constance's  for  instance — her  greatest  charm. 
Tears  are  good  for  fretful  children  and  sulky  women, 
but  to  men  they  are  more  agonizing  then  the  spear 
thrust  of  a  Roman  centurion. 

"When  the  tears  were  over  and  the  flushed  cheeks 
dried.  Miss  Muriel  attired  herself  properly  and  put  on 
her  hat. 

She'd  go  and  see  the  calf  before  she  sent  it  back,  for 
of  course  she'd  send  it  back ;  she  wouldn't  throw  Mr. 


FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  27 

Heatherbridge's  love  back  to  him  and  keep  his  love 
offering. 

Looking  marvelously  pretty  and  fresh  in  her  dainty 
yet  well-worn  hat  and  tweed  cape,  she  tripped  over  the 
farm  court  and  into  the  yard. 

Yes,  there  was  the  calf,  and  very  lovable  and  ac- 
ceptable it  was. 

She  stroked  its  neck  and  kissed  its  nose,  murmured  a 
*'good-by,"  and  then,  with  a  sigh,  wandered  through 
the  lane  of  well-stocked  barns  and  weather-tight  out- 
houses on  to  the  avenue. 

The  avenue  was  the  pride  of  Rubywood,  and  Farmer 
Holt  valued  its  possession  very  highly — the  more  highly 
for  that  possession  having  one  flaw. 

It  was  not  an  exclusive  right  of  way  to  Rubywood, 
but  served  as  a  high-road  to  the  Holme,  which  lay  in 
the  hollow  to  the  left  of  Farmer  Holt's  farm. 

So  long  had  the  Holme  been  unoccupied  that  Farmer 
Holt  had  grown  to  look  upon  the  broad  elm-sheltered 
road  as  entirely  his  own,  and  had  almost  forgotten  that 
soon  another  man's  carts  and  waihs,  cattle  and  sheep 
must  be  driven  down  it. 

Muriel  passed  into  the  avenue  and  looked  up  and 
down  it. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  might  be  still  lingering  about, 
and  it  behooved  her  to  be  careful  of  him.  She  did  not 
want  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  her  tormentor. 


28  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  other  swain  was  lost  in  his  picture  and  dead  to 
his  mistress's  near  proximity. 

Seeing  the  coast  clear,  Muriel  made  her  way,  with 
Snip  at  her  heels,  to  a  green  lane  which  ran  down  to 
the  brook  and  was  a  favorite  walk  of  hers. 

At  the  end  of  it,  by  standing  on  the  stile,  she  could 
see  both  Rubywood  and  the  Holme. 

One  looking  so  prosperous  and  well-to-do,  the  other 
so  deserted  and  dilapidated. 

At  the  stile  she  stood  on  tiptoe  and  looked  at  the  two 
places,  and,  listening  to  an  unhinged  shutter  that  flapped 
against  the  walls  of  the  empty  farmhouse,  she.  naturally 
fell  to  thinking  of  it  and  its  new  tenant. 

"  Poor  young  fellow,"  she  sighed.  "  How  lonely  and 
miserable  he  will  feel,  his  mother  and  father  just  dead, 
leaving  his  native  place  and  old  friends  and  coming  to 
such  a  dreary,  uncanny  place  as  that.     I  wonder " 

She  got  off  the  stile  as  she  spoke  and  broke  off  sud- 
denly, for  close  at  her  elbow,  so  close  that  he  made  her 
start,  stood  a  gentleman,  young,  tall  and  grave  looking. 


FABMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  29 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 

— Wordsworth. 

As  Miss  Holt  started,  dropped  from  the  stile,  she 
turned  to  the  stranger  with  that  expression  of  shyness 
and  injury  which  every  one  wears  to  the  individual  who 
has  startled  them. 

The  gentleman  raised  his  hat,  and  with  a  quiet 
smile  made  his  apology. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  startled  you  !  The  corner  is  so 
abrupt  and  the  grass  so  sodden  that  you  did  not  hear 
me  approach.     I  am  very  sorry." 

Muriel  Holt  blushed — though  not  by  any  means  ad- 
dicted to  habitual  flag-flying — and  hastened  to  reassure 
the  courteous  gentleman. 

"Pray  do  not  apologize.  I  did  not  hear  you  coming, 
but  still  there  was  no  reason  to  be  startled.  Nor  should 
I  have  been  had  I  not  been  perched  on  that  stile." 

He  smiled  at  her  expression,  "  perched,"  and  no 
doubt  as  he  glanced  at  the  young,  sweet  face  thought 


80  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

that  she  was  a  beautiful  kind  of  bird,  fit  to  perch  any- 
where. 

But  he  remarked,  sensibly  enough  : 
"  You  were  looking  at  the  old  house  yonder  ? 
"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  not  at  all  afraid  of  the  strange 
gentleman,  and  no  doubt  gaining  courage  from  the  re- 
flection that  her  impropriety,  if  any  there  were,  was 
lessened  by  the  fact  that  her  father  was  within  hearing, 
**yes,  and  thinking  of  Dr.  Johnson's  lines: 

"  '  Let  observation,  with  extensive  view. 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru.'" 

The  stranger  looked  rather  astonished. 

He  had  not  expected,  perhaps,  to  find  so  self-composed 
a  young  lady  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  place  as  Ruby- 
wood,  or  one  acquainted  with  Dr.  Johnson's  resonant 
lines. 

*'Not  a  very  extensive  view  after  all,"  he  said. 
*'  Not  anything  but  a  small  portion  of  mankind." 

"  You  can  see  Holmwood  Chase  from  here — the  Oaks 
and  the  thicket  from  here ;  and  by  mounting  that 
stile  yonder  three  counties  lying,  as  one  may  say,  in 
the  hollow  of  a  man's  hand.  That's  extensive,  is  it 
not?" 

"Yes,  after  a  fashion,"  he  replied,  leaning  on  his 
stick,  and  hoping  that  perhaps  this  pretty,  innocent  bird 
would  stay  singing  thus  a  long  while,  "yes,  after  a 
fashion ;  but  as  to  the  mankind  part  of  the  prospect, 


FAEMBR  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  31 

will  you  be  so  gracious  and  inform  me  how  much  one 
can  see  of  that  ?  " 

She  smiled  and,  with  her  hand  upon  the  stile  pointed 
to  the  Howe. 

"  That  house  there  half-hidden  by  tbe  tall  elms  is  the 
Howe.  It  is  the  grandest,  oldest  place  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  it  belongs  to  Mr.  Alfred  Heatherbridge." 

"I  know  the  name,"  said  the  gentleman,  quietly. 

"  Yonder — that  old  house  so  tumble-down  and  dilapi- 
dated— is  the  Holme,  empty,  as  you  see — poor  old  place ! 
It  is  pretty  from  here,  all  the  prettier  for  its  broken 
shutters  and  weedy  court.  In  the  valley  there  is  Ruby- 
wood  Farm,  which  belongs  to  Farmer  Holt ;  do  you 
think  that  is  pretty  ?  " 

"Very,"  said  the  stranger,  "and" — looking  at  the 
well-tilled  ground — "  excellent  soil.  That  farm  is  well 
kept,  I  should  say." 

"  It  is,"  said  Muriel,  with  quiet  but  amused  emphasis. 

"  Worked  on  the  old  plan,"  continued  the  stranger, 
thoughtfully,  his  eyes  still  wandering  over  the  broad 
acres.  "  Ah,  the  old  system  !  "  he  added,  to  himself. 
"  What  such  a  farm  as  this  would  produce  if  farmed  on 
the  new !  "  Then  aloud  to  Miss  Holt :  "  Farmer  Holt, 
I  think  you  said  ?  May  I  ask  for  some  information  with- 
out seeming  rude  or  unjustifiably  curious?" 

"  That  depends  upon  what  the  information  may 
be." 

"  Let  me  ask  you  then  if  Mr.  Holt " 


32  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Farmer  Holt  he  calls  himself,"  interrupted  Muriel 
softly. 

"  Farmer  Holt  then — if  Farmer  Holt  is  generally 
liked  in  the  district  ?  " 

"  Sir  I  "  exclaimed  Farmer  Holt's  daughter,  then,  re- 
membering that  she  was  as  much  a  stranger  to  the 
stranger  as  he  was  to  her,  she  corrected  herself  and 
replied,  gravely,  instead : 

'*  Pardon  me,  the  question  seemed  so  singular. 
Farmer  Holt  is  the  best-liked  man  in  Rubywood;  there 
is  not  a  woman,  child,  or  dog  for  ten  miles  round  that 
does  not  love  him.  Liked  !  Oh,  sir,  you  do  not  know 
him,  indeed " 

"  And  you,  to  speak  so  warmly  in  his  favor,  must  be 
intimately  acquainted  with  him,"  said  the  stranger. 

Muriel  Holt  smiled. 

"  I  do  know  him  and — love  him,"  she  said,  quietly. 

Then  her  face  lighted  up  into  fresh  beauty,  and  she 
pointed  to  the  farmer  himself,  who,  prodding  two  fatted 
heifei-s  in  the   sides,  could  be  seen  in  the  straw  yard. 

"  See,  there  he  is  !    Does  he  not  look  all  I  have  said  ?  '* 

The  stranger  looked  and  smiled. 

"  I  will  trust  your  word  even  before  my  eyes,"  he  said, 
gi-avely.  "  And  I  thank  you  for  your  information. 
May  I  ask  one  other  favor  to  thank  you  for  ?  Will  you 
tell  me  the  nearest  way  to  Hopwood  ?  " 

Muriel  looked  rather  surprised. 

"  Hopwood  lies  yonder,"  she  said.     "  Straight  through 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  33 

the  wood   by    the  footpath,   you   must   not   go    off  it 
please " 

"  Do  not  fear,"  he  said,  "  I  am  a  respecter  of  farmers* 
footpaths  and  all  their  other  rights." 

"  Straight  through  the  wood  till  you  reach  an  open 
space,  that  is  Hop  Common  ;  turn  to  your  right  and 
that  will  lead  you  to  the  village." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hat  and  revealing  a 
well-shaped  head  furnished  with  pleasant-colored  hair. 
"  Thank  you,  very  much.     Good  day," 

Muriel  Holt  dropped  him  a  stately,  demure  little 
courtesy,  and  the  stranger  strode  on. 

Miss  Holt  looked  after  him  curiously,  called  Snip  and 
went  on  her  way. 

Her  destination,  decided  on  while  she  had  been  talk- 
ing at  the  stile,  was  a  cottage  at  the  end  of  the  lane, 
where  an  old  woman,  much  afflicted  by  rheumatics  and 
an  undying  thirst  for  Farmer's  Holt's  old  port,  dwelt. 

Old  Goody  Cropperty,  as  the  old  lady  was  called, 
was  one  of  Miss  Holt's  pensioners,  and  was  aged  enough 
to  remember  Miss  Holt's  great-grandfather,  or,  if  she 
was  not,  was  untruthful  enough  to  say  that  she  did. 

'*  Well,  Goody,"  said  Muriel,  in  her  clear,  sweet  voice. 
"  How  are  the  rheumatics  to-day?     Better  I  hope." 

"  They'll  never  be  better  this  side  o'  the  grave.  Miss 
Mur'l,"  replied  Goody,  who  always  spoke  of  her  com- 
plaint in  the  plural,  and  persisted  in  clipping  Muriel's 
name  of  half  the  middle  syllable,  making  it  something 


34  FAKMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

very  like  "  Mule  "  to  which  animal  her  father  in  loving 
fun  likened  her. 

"  Never  be  any  better  nor  this  side  o'  the  grave,  Miss 
Mur'l.  It's  my  ci-oss,  my  dear,  and  I  must  wear  it. 
All  on  us  has  our  crosses.  Here's  Jaffer's  got  his  cross, 
which  is  not  so  afflictin'  a  one  as  it  be  annoyin'.  " 

Jaffer  was  her  grandson,  an  ungainly  youth  of  eleven 
summers,  whose  affliction  mourned  over  by  Goody  was 
an  incurable  habit  of  laughing  at  the  most  awkward 
and  unaccountable  and  even  serious  things. 

He  had  greeted  Miss  Holt's  entrance  with  a  loud 
guffaw,  he  received  his  grandmother's  assurance  of  her 
long  lease  in  rheumatism  with  another  guffaw,  and  now 
at  the  sound  of  his  own  name  gave  vent  to  a  loud  laugh 
that  would  have  shocked  and  alarmed  any  one  un- 
acquainted with  his  '*  cross  "  considerably. 

But  Miss  Holt  knew  Jaffer  and  his  peculiarity  well, 
and  his  guffaws  took  no  effect  upon  her  beyond  elicit- 
ing a  good-natured  smile. 

"  And  Jiow  is  Jaffer  ?  "  she  asked,  laying  her  hand 
upon  the  boy's  head. 

"  Oh,  he  be  pretty  well,"  replied  Goody,  "  barrin'  his 
leanness.  Miss  Mur'l ;  I  don't  think  as  nuthin'  'ud  ever 
make  him  fat.  Farmer  Tomkins,  from  the  Farm  End, 
took  him  for  three  weeks  to  make  what  he  called  a  exes- 
pearhemeant,  but  it  weren't  o'  any  use.  He  eat  the  good 
farmer  out  of  o'  house  an'  home,  and  coom  back  thinner 
nor  ever ;  didn't  ye,  Jaffer  ?  " 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  35 

"  Ay,"  assented  Jaffer,  with  a  sharp  guffaw  like  a 
pistol  crack.     "  I  be  stricken  thin." 

"  You  be,"  croaked  the  old  lady,  shaking   her  head. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Miss  Holt,  "  Jaffer  will  get  fat 
some  day,  I  daresay.  He  must  come  up  to  Rubywood 
next  Christmas  and  eat  some  pudding." 

Here  Jaffer  burst  with  a  loud  explosion  into  a  prize 
guffaw. 

"  Come  and  eat  some  pudding,  and  some  beef,  and 
drink  some  port  wine,  won't  you,  Jaffer  ?  That  reminds 
me,  Goody,  have  you  any  more  wine  left  ?  " 

Old  Goody  courtesied. 

"  No,  Miss  Mur'l.  Bless  your  good  heart,  I  don't 
think  there  be.  Jaffer,  see  if  they're  be  any  more  in  the 
cupboard." 

Jaffer  made  inspection  and  reported  stores  exhausted. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Holt,  "  I'll  send  you  some  more 
this  evening.  But  do  you  know,  Goody,  Dr.  Thorne 
says  that  port  wine  is  very  bad  for  you,  and  that  I  ought 
to  give  you  medicine  instead — his  medicine  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  b'lieve  him,  miss  !  "  exclaimed  old  Goody, 
eagerly.  "  The  doctor  don't  understand  my  complaint, 
I  be  sure  he  doesn't.  The  port  wine  don't  do  me  no 
harm,  miss,  it  do  me  a  sight  o '  good.  Ah,  miss,  that 
old  doctor  bean't  got  any  sense  in  him  left,  he  be  so  old." 

Doctor  Thorne  wanted  a  good  score  years  to  old 
Goody's  age. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Holt,  laughing,   "you   ought  to 


36  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

know  what  does  you  the  most  good,  so  you  shall  liave 
the  wine." 

'*  Bless  your  good  heart,  Miss  Mur'l.  Jaffer,  make 
your  best  bow,  make  your  best  bow  to  Miss  Mur'l, 
Jaffer." 

Jaffer  complied  by  placing  his  hand  at  the  back  of  his 
thickhead  and  jerking  it  forward  twice  in  half  a  minute. 

Muriel  patted  the  boy's  head,  smiled  a  good-by  to 
the  old  woman  and  left  them  reveling  in  benedictoiy 
exclamations. 

By  this  time  the  sun  had  got  quite  hot,  and  the  larks 
flitting  upwards  congratulated  each  other  on  the  beauty 
of  the  weather  in  joyful  burets  of  song. 

Muriel  Holt  paused  at  the  open  door  to  gaze  upwards, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

As  she  stood  thus  she  made  as  beautiful  a  picture  as 
any  of  Mr.  Vandike's  patrons  could  desire  to  see,  and  an 
old  man,  bent  rather  with  age,  and  dressed  in  a  shep- 
herd smock,  passing  up  the  lane,  stopped  to  look  at  her, 
touching  his  weather-stained  hat  as  she  turned  to  look 
at  him  in  return. 

"  Good-even,  miss,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Good-even,"  returned  Miss  Holt. 

" Can  ee  tell  me  which  be  the  Holme  farm?"  said 
the  old  fellow,  uncovering  his  head  and  wiping  liis 
wrinkled  forehead  with  a  cotton  handkercliief  colored 
with  all  tlie  hues  of  the  rainbow,  and  a  few  more  in- 
vented by  the  manufacturer. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  37 

**  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  and  added,  smiling  to  herself  ; 
"  It  seems  as  if  I  were  doomed  to  play  fingerpost  to  in- 
quiring strangers.  Yes,  that  is  the  Holme,  there  yon- 
der, that  old  house  among  the  trees." 

The  old  man  shaded  his  face  and  peered  down  the 
valley,  then,  with  a  similar  gesture  to  the  younger 
stranger,  he  cast  his  glance  round  the  land  and  mut- 
tered: 

"  Good  pasturage,  but  the  home  be  a  poor,  deft  sort 
of  place,  miss,"  and  he  shook  his  head  with  a  sigh. 

"  The  house  is  old,  and  has  been  empty  for  some 
time,"  said  Miss  Holt.  "  But  it  is  let  now  to  a  Mr. 
Leigh  ;  I  believe.     Are  you  seeking  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  then  looked  up  and  cor- 
rected himself,  "and  yet  I  bean't,  miss,  for  he  won't 
be  here  till  the  morrow.  I  be  his  shepherd,  miss,  and 
were  his  father's  before  him,  poor  Maester  William 
Leigh  ;  him  as  be  dead." 

And  the  old  man  lifted  his  hat  again  with  a  simple 
gesture  of  regret  and  affection. 

"  You  were  his  shepherd  ?  "  said  Miss  Holt,  seating 
herself  on  a  felled  tree  and  making  room  for  the  old  man 
beside  her  with  that  simple,  kindly  grace  with  which 
the  better  class  of  country  folk  bend  the  hearts  of  their 
humbler  brethren  to  them.     "  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

The  old  man,  nothing  loth,  took  off  his  hat  again  and 
Bighed. 

Muriel  sprang  up. 


38  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Stop  a  moment ;  you  are  tired,  and  must  be  thirsty. 
I'll  get  you  a  cup  of  cider." 

So  saying  she  returned  to  old  Goody's  cottage,  pro- 
cured the  cup  of  cider  and  returned  with  it. 

The  old  man  took  it  from  her  fair,  plump  hands  with 
his  old,  wrinkled  ones,  and  muttered  a  blessing  on 
her. 

*'  The  house  may  be  old  and  deft,  but  the  young 
master  will  have  kind  hearts  about  him,  missie,"  he  said, 
nodding  his  head. 

Muriel  blushed,  though  she  could  not  have  told  why, 
for  she  was  used  to  such  speeches  from  her  cottagei-s, 
and  one  extra  one  from  a  strange  old  man  could  not 
have  affected  her.  Perhaps  it  was  its  connection  with 
the  young  "  maester,"  -in  whom  and  whose  affaire  she 
was  conscious  of  feeling  a  strong  and  unaccountable 
interest. 

"  This  be  good  cider,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Old 
Maester  William  was  very  fondo'  the  drink,  but  it  was 
a  strange  one  down  our  parts." 

"  You  came  from  the  north  ?  "  said  Muriel. 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"Right  away  north — Musslewitch.  Old  Maester 
William's  folks  a'  had  Musslewitch  Farm  ever  sin' 
Musslewitch  were  Musslewitch.  Ah,  me  !  ah,  me !  we 
old  uns  do  see  strange  things  that  be  uncommon  sad. 
To  think  of  a  Leigh  leavin'  the  Musslewitch  and  coom 
to  a  deft  barn  o'  a  place  like  yonder." 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  39 

And  he  jerked  his  finger  over  his  shoulder  at  the  dilap- 
idated Holme, 

"  Not  as  I  mean  to  growlify  at  th'  pasture,  which  do 
seem  good  enough,  and  I  hope  a  blessin'  will  wait  upon 
the  sheep.  Most  like  too  the  land  be  good  enow, 
though  I  think  I  did  heer  the  young  master  say  the 
soil  was  starved." 

Muriel  nodded,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dim 
landscape  beyond  the  old  man's  profile,  said,  dreamily ; 

"  But  about  the  Leighs  ;  why  does  not  Mr.  Leigh — 
tlie  younger,  I  mean — continue  the  Musslewitch — what 
a  queer  name — Farm  ?  " 

"  The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  It  bean't  his  no  longer,  miss.  Old  Master  William 
he  did  lose  a  deal  o'  money — a  speculation  or  summat 
o'  that  sort.  Some  says  he  did  lose  as  much  as  a  thou- 
sand in  one  day.  Think  o'  that,  miss  !  But  it  were  all 
kept  quiet,  and  old  Maester  William  wore  took  ill  like 
— a  summat,  the  doctors  said,  in  his  head.  He  wore 
frettin'  and  fumin'  I  knew,  for  I  sees  he  didn't  take  no 
kind  o'  int'rest  in  the  sheep,  and  depen'  on  it,  miss,  it's 
all  queer  and  wrong  like  when  a  body  do  neglect  th' 
sheep.  Well,  he  dies,  does  Maester  William,  and  they 
reads  the  will,  which  he  laves  it  all — farm  and  all — to  the 
young  Maester  Wynter.  But,  Heaven  bless  yer,  before 
the  body  wore  cold  in  the  grave  half  a  dozen  Lunnon 
chaps  coom  down,  and  they  says  the  farm,  and  the  stock, 
and  everythin,'  stick  and  stone,    was   theirs.     Tliey'd 


40  FARMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

got  a  bill  o'  sale,  or  some  such  thing,  and  they  had  their 
way.  Heaven,  what  a  weepin'  and  wailin'  and  gnashin' 
o'  teeth  there  was  aboot  the  country,  and  more  betoken 
soon  arter,  for  Mistress  Leigh  falls  sick  o'  the  troubles 
and  she  dies,  rest  her  soul !  Then  the  young  maester 
he  has  to  turn  out  wi'  just  the  money  as  belonged  to 
the  dead  mistress,  and  whicli  the  Lunnon  chaps  couldna 
touch,  and  he  buys  this  farm." 

"  And  he  comes  to-morrow  ?  "  said  Muriel,  whose 
soft,  gentle  heart  was  inexpressibly  touched  by  the  story 
of  sorrow  and  trouble.  "  Poor  young  man !  Well,  I 
am  sure  you  have  a  good  master,  for  you  seem  so  at- 
tached to  him,  gafifer,  and  if  at  any  time  you  want  any- 
thing, hurdles  or  such  like,  or — or  anything  else,  in  fact 
anything  whatever,  come  to  me,  Muriel  Holt,  at  Ruby- 
wood  Farm,  down  there  in  the  Hollow.     Good-by." 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  41 


CHAPTER   IV. 

And  the  spring  came  slowly  up  this  way. 

— Coleridge. 
One  in  whom  persuasion  and  belief 
Had  ripened  into  faith. 

— Wordsworth. 

Next  morning  Farmer  Holt  stood  in  his  avenue 
solemnly  and  carefully  staring  at  two  enormous  ruts 
made  in  the  roadway. 

They  were  caused  by  the  travel  of  the  wagons  taking 
the  furniture  and  effects  of  Mr.  Wynter  Leigh,  his 
neighbor,  to  tlie  Holme.  A  few  hours  after  Miss 
Muriel,  coming  from  her  bath-room,  where  she  had 
been  reveling  like  a  canarj''  in  cool  spring  water,  saw 
two  columns  of  smoke  twisting  from  the  Holme  chim- 
neys, and  knew  that  the  old  shepherd's  master  had 
arrived. 

Later  on  came  a  drove  of  cattle  and  sheep. 

Then  there  echoed  through  the  vale  the  patter  of 
of  hammers  and  the  creak  of  saws, 

"  Doing  the  repairs,"  said  the  farmer,  grimly.  "Poor 
young  chap." 

"Have  you  seen  him  yet,  father?"  asked  Muriel. 

"  No,  lass,"  he  replied.     "  Have  you  ?" 


42  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  No,  but  I  thought  I  had,  for  yesterday  a  stranger 
startled  me  at  the  stile,  and  stopped  to  ask  about  the 
village.  I  naturally  concluded  that  he  was  our  new 
neighbor,  but  afterwards  he  asked  the  way  to  Hopwood 
and  went  straight  to  the  footpath  without  going  near 
the  Holme.  Then  I  saw  an  old  shepherd  of  Mr.  Leigh's, 
who  said  his  master  would  not  be  here  till  to-day." 

"  The  wains  have  made  two  nice  ruts  in  the  avenue 
road,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  balancing  his  knife  thought- 
fully. 

"  That  couldn't  be  helped,  I  suppose,  and  Mr.  Leigh's 
men  will  put  it  all  right.  It  is  his  avenue,  isn't  it, 
father?" 

"  No,  mine,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  stoutly.  "  But  the 
law  of  this  land  gives  him  the  right  to  drive  the  cattle 
and  drag  his  heavy  wains  through  it ;  in  other  words, 
lass,  the  law  allows  me  to  pay  for  it  and  keep  it  in  re- 
pair and  him  to  use  it." 

*'  That's  a  strange  law,  father,"  said  Muriel. 

"  'Tain't  without  a  bedfellow,  lass,"  said  the  farmer, 
curtly.  "  Some  of  them  Parliament  chaps  must  a  been 
soft-headed  when  that  law  was  made,  and  there's  a  good 
many  of  'em  soft-headed  now.  Hast  seen  anything  of 
Heatherbridge  this  morn  ?  " 

Muriel  blushed  for  a  second  and  looked  hard  at  her 
father. 

"  No,  father." 

*'  Ah  !  "  said  the  farmer,  innocently.     "  He  said  as  he 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  43 

were  coming  to  look  at  the  young  colt,  but  he  hasn't 
been  near.  Don't  like  young  men  to  break  their  words. 
Old  Digby  Heatherbridge,  his  father,  would  a  sooner 
died  first,  but  the  present  set  o'  men  beant  so  particular, 
they  tell  me.  Where's  the  cow  and  calf  he  give  you 
gone  from  the  yard  ?  Didn't  it  suit  you  to  leave  'em 
there  ?     Best  place  for  'em,  lass." 

*'  I — I — sent  them  back,  father,"  said  Muriel,  quietly. 

"  Sent  'em  back  ?  "  repeated  her  father.  "  What  a 
wilful,  changeful  girl  you  be,  contrary  as  a  colt ;  there 
be  no  knowing  your  mind  for  a  day.  Why,  didn't  I 
hear  ye  say  ye'd  give  anything  for  the  calf  ?  " 

"Yes,  father,"  pleaded  Muriel,  "but — "  Here  she 
stopped,  and  only  added  to  herself,  "  but  I  didn't  bargain 
for  the  owner  as  well !  " 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Farmer  Holt.  "  Wise  men  can 
understand  everything  but  a  woman,  they  do  say  ;  and 
I  think  they're  right. 

Then  Muriel  slipped  away  and  the  old  man  settled 
into  his  chair  for  his  bottle  of  port  and  comfortable 
snooze. 

The  port  came  but  not  the  snooze. 

For  some  minutes  he  sat  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  the 
table,  which  shone  like  a  piece  of  mahogany  mounted  in 
glass,  and  reflected  his  English,  genial  face  like  a 
Roman  mirror. 

Then  he  dipped  his  plump  forefinger  into  his  wine- 
glass and  drew  a  plan  with  it  on  the  shining  surface  ;  a 


44  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

square,  with  a  slice,  neat  and  compact,  out  of  one 
corner. 

This  represented  the  plan  of  his  land,  the  estate  of 
Rubywood. 

Farmer  Holt  looked  at  it  hard  and  unblushingly  for 
full  three  minutes,  then  he  sighed,  shook  his  head  and 
finished  the  plan  with  another  supply  of  moisture. 

"It's  an  awkward  corner,"  he  mused,  beneath  his 
breath,  scratching  his  head  with  his  left  hand  and  keep- 
ing his  right  ready  to  retrace  his  plan  if  need  be.  "  It's 
an  awkward  corner.  Take  them  fences  down  and  that 
bit  o'  land  in  and  Rubywood  'ud  be  square  and  proper. 
As  it  is,  it  ain't  any  shape  to  speak  of,  neither  round? 
nor  a  triangle,  nor  an  oval,  nor  anytliing  but  a  spoilt 
square.  Take  that  bit  of  the  Howe  land  in  and  there's 
the  square,  complete  and  perfect.  And  he  won't  sell  it 
me,  and  his  father  wouldn't  sell  it  me,  though  I  offered 
to  cover  it  with  crown  pieces.  Them  Heatherbridges 
always  were  obstinate. 

"  But  I  think  young  Alfred  is  a  little  softer-minded. 
He  wouldn't  hold  out  if  he  hadn't  made  up  his  mind  to 
part  with  it  for  something  worth  having,  and  it  ain't 
money.  Young  Heatherbridge  is  a  decent  young  chap, 
he  comes  o'  a  good  stock  ;  there's  nothin'  like  blood  in 
England,  blood  and  money  together  can  beat  anything 
in  the  whole  world,  and  young  Heatherbridge  has  got 
*em  both. 

"  Yes,  he's  a  likely  young  chap.     Muriel's  growing  a 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  45 

fine  girl — she'll  be  a  woman  directly,  take  us  by  a  sur- 
prise one  mornin'.  Daresay  they  think  her  a  woman 
already.  It  was  mighty  kind  of  Alfred  to  send  her  the 
cow  and  t'  calf.  Wonder  what  she  sent  it  back  for  ? 
You  can't  learn  a  woman,  or  be  knowin'  about  a  weather- 
cock. Yes,  Muriel's  growing  into  a  woman,  bless  her 
heart,  and  Alfred's  a  likely,  liandsome  young  fellow. 

"Take  that  corner  in  and  there  you  are,  a  square 
complete  and  perfect." 

And  Farmer  Holt  wiped  the  plan  out  with  a  sweep 
of  his  hand,  and  resigned  himself  to  his  after-dinner  nap. 

Muriel  from  the  little  latticed  window  of  her  own 
little  bower  of  a  room,  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hands 
and  looked  down  the  vale. 

She  was  thinking  in  an  aimless,  purposeless,  dreamy 
sort  of  way,  of  the  new-comer  at  the  Holme,  and  wrap- 
ping round  him,  girl  like,  a  glamour  gotten  from  the 
pathetic  narrative  of  the  old  shepherd. 

How  lonely  he  must  feel,  how  sad !  His  mother  and 
father  just  dead,  his  estate  lost,  and  himself  alone  and 
friendless,  among  strangers  ! 

In  this  mood,  Mr.  Vandike,  tripping  with  the  gait  of 
a  Hyde  Park  dandy  up  the  well-kept  gravel  path,  was 
not  very  welcome  to  her. 

But  Muriel  was  all  good  nature  as  well  as  unsophis- 
ticated innocence,  and  gave  him  a  pleasant  little  nod 
and  smile  in  answer  to  his  sudden  start  and  evident 
glance  of  artistic  admiration. 


46  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Now,  really,  Miss  Holt,  it  is  too  bad  !  I  really  think 
you  do  it  on  purpose  !  Eveiy  time  I  see  you  it  is  in  an 
attitude  of  grace  and  witchery.  You  are  provoking 
enough  to  send  an  artist  mad.  If  I  could  paint  you  as 
you  lean  there  framed  in  that  delicious  cranky  old  win- 
dow I  should  make  my  fortune." 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  and  I  beg  you  will  forgive  me,  Mr. 
Vandike,  though  I  don't  in  the  least  understand  what 
I  have  done !  Is  it  a  compliment  ?  You  must  put 
them  in  broader — light  and  shade,  as  you  say  over 
your  pictures ;  I  am  not  a  fine  London  lady,  you 
know " 

"  But  you  are  the  finest  country  one  I  have  ever  seen, 
Miss  Holt ! " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Muriel,  composedly,  but  with  a 
merry  smile.  "  That's  much  nicer.  I  can  understand 
that.  What  does  some  one  say  a  compliment  is  ?  'A 
falsehood  wrapped  in  counterfeit  truth.'  You  should 
remember  that  definition,  Mr.  Vandike.  *  A  falsehood 
wrapped  in  counterfeit  truth ! ' " 

He  laughed  with  her,  and  rather  louder.  She  held  up 
her  finger. 

"  Hush,  father  is  asleep,  please  do  not  wake  him  ;  he 
enjoys  his  nap  after  dinner  so  much." 

*'  Nap  after  dinner !  "  exclaimed  the  exquisite.  "  Did 
ever  any  one  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ? — in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  tool  Why,  Miss  Holt,  it's  perfectly 
unnatural !  " 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  47 

"  Oh,  no,  it's  not ;  look  at  that  cow  there,  and  the  two 
pigs,  and  the  calf ;  and  there's  a  bird  asleep,  and  every- 
thing is  asleep  after  dinner,  excepting  foolish  people. 
I  ought  to  be  asleep  ! " 

'•  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Vandike,  *'  that's  a  pretty 
plain  cong^.     Did  you  mean  it?  " 

"  What's  the  queer  word,  *  congd  '  ?  Let  me  think  ; 
I  have  learned  French,  you  know,  but  I  have  forgotten 
it.  Oh,  no,  I  didn't  mean  you  to  go,  but  if  you  stay 
you  must  not  talk,  and  you  must  not  smoke,  because 
father  doesn't  like  tobacco  in  the  day  time,  and  you 
mustn't  walk  about,  because  you  will  scrunch  the  gravel 
and  make  too  much  noise,  and  you  mustn't — in  fact  you 
mustn't  do  anything  !  " 

Mr.  Vandike  laughed  softly,  then  sighed. 

"  I  shall  never  get  you  serious,  Miss  Holt,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Come  and  see  me  when  the  puddings  don't  turn  out 
right,  I  shall  be  serious  enough  then  ;  and  now  good- 
by,"  and  she  raised  her  hand  to  the  latch  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"  Stop  a  minute !  "  said  Mr.  Vandike  ;  "  do  you  know- 
that  Mr.  Wynter  Leigh  has  come." 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  almost  impatiently. 

She  was  beginning  to  be  angry  with  herself  for  being 
so  interested  in  the  stranger,  and  angry  with  all  who 
heightened  that  interest. 

With  the  window  closed  and  the  picture  vanished 


48  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

from  the  frame  there  was  nothing  for  Mr.  Vandike  but 
to  beat  a  retreat,  and  this  he  did,  sighing. 

Tea  at  Rubywood  was  perhaps  the  most  comfortable 
meal  of  the  day. 

Had  you  proposed  to  Farmer  Holt  that  he  should  re- 
tire to  the  drawing-room  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  and  a 
thin  slice  of  bread-and-butter,  which  he  was  to  balance 
on  his  knee  a  la  Belgravian  swell,  he  would  have 
fainted,  or  more  likely  sworn. 

He  dined  early,  at  half-past  one,  napped  afterwards, 
strolled  round  the  farm  and  came  in  at  half-past  five, 
ready  for  a  substantial  tea  of  best  Bohea,  cold  ham, 
eggs,  strawberry  jam — whole  strawberries,  luscious  and 
irresistible,  not  an  indistinguishable  pulp  of  sweetness 
— and  piles  of  fresh-buttered  bread. 

That  night,  just  as  they  sat  down  to  this  substantial 
tea,  in  came  Mr.  Heatherbridge. 

He  looked  shyly  at  Muriel  and  hesitated. 

Indeed  he  was  intruding,  he  knew  he  was,  indeed ! 

But  the  farmer  gave  him  a  genial  and  marked  wel- 
come, and  very  shyly  he  sat  down  between  father  and 
daughter  and  unfolded  his  news. 

"  I've  been  on  to  Hopwood,"  he  said,  "Farmer  Holt, 
and  I've  seen  a  most  uncommon  sight." 

'*  What's  that  ?  "  said  the  farmer.  "  A  pig-headed 
lady  or  double-tailed  heifer  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  said  young  Heatherbridge,  "  but  a  pair  of 
steam  engines." 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  49 

The  farmer  grunted. 

He  held  steam  and  the  macliineiy  it  sets  in  motion  in 
litter  contempt  and  abhorrence. 

"  Uncommon  ugly  sight,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"  Maybe,"  said  young  Heatherbridge,  "  and  certainly 
they  weren't  handsome  to  look  at,  but  if  tliey  do  all 
they  say  they'll  do  why  they're  wonderful  things. 
There  were  plowing,  reaping  and  threshing  machines, 
and  I  cannot  tell  you  what  else " 

"  Rubbish  !  "  interrupted  Farmer  Holt.  *'  Don't  you 
be  took  with  their  outrageous  notions  !  Your  father 
would  have  snapped  his  fingers  at  'em  as  I  do  mine." 

And  the  farmer  did  snap  his  fingers,  and  loudly. 

"  Steam  !  Steam  plows,  and  harrows,  and  flails,  and 
mowers !  Nonsense  !  It's  downright  wicked  !  What 
d'ye  think  Heaven  sent  strong  men  and  women  into  the 
world  for  if  it  wasn't  to  till  the  ground  and  sow  and 
reap  the  crops  ?  If  it  had  been  meant  as  we  should  go 
puffing  across  the  fields  with  a  couple  of  iron  elephants, 
ranting  and  roaring,  blowing  out  smoke  and  dropping 
coal  and  cinders,  we  should  'a'  had  a  first-class  set 
of  steam  engines  created  for  us.  It's  downright 
wicked." 

Young  Heatherbridge  shook  his  head. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  and  evidently  reluctant  to 
Tun  counter  to  such  a  strongly  expressed  opinion  of  his 
hoped  for  father-in-law,  "  well,  I  daresay  you're  right ,' 
it's   only   reason  ;  no   doubt  we   should  have  had  'em. 


so  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

created  as  you  say.  But  there  they  are,  and  a  great 
fuss  they're  making.  There  was  quite  a  crowd  round 
them." 

"  I  know,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  nodding  his  head,  "  I 
heard  of  them,  but  I  don't  disgrace  myself  going  and 
staring  at  the  monstrosities. 

"  I  saw  young  Leigh  there,"  said  Heatherbridge,  still 
on  the  theme  and  staring  at  the  fire.    _ 

The  farmer  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 

"  Oh,  you  did,  did  you  ? "  he  said,  "  now  I  do  hope 
we  ain't  got  one  of  those  crack-brained  harem-scarem 
new-notioned  chaps  down  among  us.  I  hate  'em  like 
poison.  Staring  at  the  machines,  was  he?  Pretty 
thing  if  he  goes  and  buys  one  or  two  and  drags  'em  up 
and  down  the  avenue  !  There  are  two  large  ruts  deep 
enough  to  bury  an  ox  in  a'ready." 

Young  Heatherbridge  opened  his  mouth  to  speak 
when  the  door  opened  and  Jane  put  in  her  head  to  say 
that  Mr.  Leigh  wanted  a  word  with  Farmer  Holt. 

"  Show  him  in,  girl,"  said  the  farmer,  and  Jane,  step- 
ping aside,  there  entered  Wynter  Leigh. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  rose,  as  did  Farmer  Holt. 

Muriel  sat  still  a  moment,  then,  in  country  fashion, 
dropped  a  little  stately  courtesy  and  drew  a  chair  for- 
ward for  the  visitor. 

Farmer  Holt  shook  hands  with  the  new-comer  and 
Mr.  Heatherbridge  did  the  same. 

"That's   my  daughter,"   Mr.  Leigh,"   said    Farmer 


FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  51 

Holt,  waving  his  pipe  with  pardonable  pride  at  Muriel, 
pale  and  beautiful  as  a  white  rose. 

Mr.  Leigh  bowed  gravely,  and  smiled  almost  as 
gravely. 

"  I  have  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Miss  Holt  before, 
sir,"  he  said,  seating  himself.  "  At  the  stile  in  the 
lane." 

*'  Oh,  it  was  you,"  said  the  farmer,  "  was  it  ?  She 
said  she  thought  it  was." 

Mr.  Leigh  looked  at  Muriel. 

Muriel,  for  no  earthly  reason,  blushed. 

Then  Mr.  Leigh  opened  up  the  business  of  his  visit. 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  his  face  to  the  light,  and 
Muriel,  who  could  con  his  face  without  being  observed, 
decided  that  it  was  a  handsome  one,  notwithstanding 
its  gravity  and  its  sadness.  It  was  pale,  and  there 
were  dark  shadows,  as  of  tears,  beneath  the  eyes,  but  the 
eyes  themselves  were  fine,  deep,  frank  and  earnest  ones, 
and  the  mouth,  though  firm  almost  to  obstinacy,  was 
well  cut  and  pleasing. 

"  I  came  at  this  unseasonable  hour,  Mr.  Holt,  to  ask 
you  a  favor,"  he  said,  as  quietly  as  he  had  spoken  in  the 
lane.  "  Your  cattle  have  broken  down  the  hurdles  at 
the  end  of  the  avenue  and  got  into  my  straw  yard.  My 
man  has  sorted  them  out  as  best  he  can,  but  as  mine  are 
new  purchases  and  I  am  not  sufficiently  familiar  with 
them  I  thought  it  only  right  to  walk  up  and  tell 
you." 


52  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Farmer  Holt  rose  and  put  down  his  pipe  ready  to  act 
on  the  moment,  prompt  as  usual,  then  suddenly  sat  down 
again,  reminded  of  hospitality,  and  asked  Mr.  Leigh  if 
he  had  taken  tea. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Leigh,  "  I  thank  you." 

*'  Let  me  give  you  a  cup,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  it  was  evident  that  he 
accepted  for  fear  of  seeming  cold  and  churlish. 

Muriel  handed  him  his  tea,  and  the  three  farmers  got 
into  conversation — of  course  on  farming. 

The  fact  was  Farmer  Holt  was  anxious  to  ascertain 
if  Mr.  Leigh  was  orthodox — as  he  called  it — and  not  a 
*'  new-notions  "  man,  so  he  put  this  question  during  a 
lull  in  the  conversation. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Leigh,  how  do  you  take  your  courses  up 
north  way  ?  " 

Mr.  Leigh  answered  straightforwardly. 

"  First  year  we  lie  fallow  and  sow  roots,  such  as  man- 
gold-wurzel,  or  turnips ;  next  year  we  sow  barley  or 
spring  corn;  next  year  we  take  clover;  next  year, 
wheat ;  next  year,  oats ;  then  again  turnips  and  feed 
sheep." 

Farmer  Holt  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Tiiat  was  all  right  so  far. 

Muriel,  hearing  and  understanding  that  sigh,  felt 
glad,  though  she  scarcely  knew  why. 

Mr.  Leigh  rose. 

"  I  hear,"  said  the  farmer,  "  that  you  have  been  sniiBf- 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  5$ 

ing  round  these  new-fangled  machines  at  Hopwood. 
What  do  you  think  of  tliem  ?  " 

Mr.  Leigh  smiled. 

"  I  haven't  bought  or  hired  any,"  he  said,  holding  out 
his  hand. 

Farmer  Holt  rose,  put  down  his  pipe,  and  the  three 
coated  and  hatted  for  the  avenue. 

"  Good  night.  Miss  Holt,"  said  Mr.  Leigh. 

*'  Good  night,"  said  Muriel,  giving  him  her  soft  hand. 

And  so  ended  Mr.  Leigh's  first  visit  to  Rubywood. 


54  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER    V. 

In  the  spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's  breast ; 
In  the  spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest ; 
In  the  spring  a  lovelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd  dove  ; 
In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of 
love. 

— Tennyson. 

The  three  gentlemen  having  departed  to  look  after 
and  separate  tlie  mingled  kine,  Muriel,  left  alone, 
naturally  commenced  mentally  to  criticise  the  new 
neighbor. 

Jane,  entering  at  the  moment,  assisted  at  the  criti- 
cism, unasked,  and  by  elevation  of  the  hands,  expressed 
her  unsophisticated  and  candid  admiration. 

"  Law  !  what  a  handsome  man,  miss,  and  what  a  quiet- 
spoken  gentleman  !  He  be  like  the  parson,  only  more 
pleasin'  like.     Don't  'ee  take  to  him,  miss,  a'ready?" 

"  No,  you  silly  girl,"  replied  Miss  Muriel,  smiling. 
"  Put  down  the  water  and  go  back  to  the  kitchen.  Mr. 
Leigh's  bewildered  you." 

Jane  then  retreated,  and  Muriel  took  up  her  needle- 
work and  waited  for  her  father's  return. 

He  returned  alone — Mr.  Heatherbridge  having  taken 
the  near  cut  to  the  Howe — and  not  in  the  best  of 
humors. 


FAEMER  HOLrS  DAUGHTER.      55 

"  Cattle  a  got  all  over  tlie  place,"  he  growled.  "  This 
Mister  Leigh  came  upon  us  so  suddenly  that  I  never 
thought  of  the  old  fences.  Wish  I'd  bought  the  Holme 
as  I  thought  o'  doing  ;  I  don't  take  to  new  neighbors  ! " 

Muriel  said  nothing ;  the  farmer's  little  bursts  of  irri- 
tational  ways  dispersed  the  quicker  if  left  alone,  and 
grumbling  at  intervals,  he  finished  his  pipe,  drank  his 
regulation  night-cap  of  Scotch  whisky  grog  and  re- 
treated to  bed. 

A  week  passed  and  Muriel  tried  to  persuade  hei-self 
that  she  had  forgotten  the  new  tenant,  or  at  least  had 
lost  all  interest  in  him. 

No  recluse  could  have  kept  closer  to  his  prescribed 
hermitage  than  did  Mr.  Wynter  Leigh  to  his  farm. 

If  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  at  all  it  was  at  a  dis- 
tance, when  he  would  be  tramping  over  a  meadow, 
riding  across  a  field,  or  bending  over  some  young 
lambs. 

Mr.  Vandike,  who  declared  that  he  meant  to  paint  a 
picture  of  the  farmhouse,  with  the  new  tenant  in  the 
foreground,  gave  vent  to  his  disappointment  at  not  be- 
ing able  to  catch  his  model  stationary. 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  creature  ;  looks  as  if  he  had  all 
the  world  on  his  back,  scarcely  time  to  give  me  a  civil 
answer.  Miss  Holt.  Would  you  believe  it  ?  I  asked 
him  to  give  me  leave  to  paint  the  left  wing — the  ruined 
one,  you  know — and  what  do  you  think  he  replied? 
*  Paint  it  off  the  fac*  of  the  earth  if  you  like,  sir,'  said 


56  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

he,  *  for  it's  sadly  in  the  way  of  my  barn.'  He  knows 
nothing  of  art." 

"  Quite  enough  if  he  knows  farming,"  growled  the 
farmer,  who  came  up  in  time  to  hear  the  lamentation. 

"  And  if  he  doesn't  I  should  think  he  is  going  the 
way  to  learn  it,"  said  young  Vandike.  "  He  is  up  with 
the  lark — there's  one  bird  under  my  window  that  takes 
its  time  from  him — and  the  last  to  go  to  bed.  And  as 
for  tramping  about  down  hill  up  dale,  I'll  back  him  to 
•walk  Jemmy  Hernshaw  off  his  legs  in  a  couple  of  days.'* 

"And  who's  Jemmy  Hernshaw?  "  asked  Miss  Muriel. 

"  Jemmy  Hernshaw  is  the  champion  pedestrian.  Miss 
Holt,"  said  Mr.  Vandike,  politely,  but  pityingly.  "  You 
never  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Muriel,  as  she  ran  indoors  ;  "  don't  wish 
to  hear." 

Having  received  what  he  called  his  usual  grace,  Mr, 
Yandike  walked  off  sighing. 

The  farmer  looked  after  him,  leaning  on  his  stick,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  There's  truth  in  what  that  harum-scarum  chap  says ; 
young  Leigh  is  sticking  to  it  like  wax,  lass.  He  works 
harder  than  any  man  at  the  farm,  and  he's  hardly  time 
for  a  word  so  much  as  '  good  morning.'  What's  more, 
he's  put  the  fences  up  himself,  and  that's  uncommon 
polite." 

The  farmer  made  this  admission,  but  it  was  a  reluc- 
tant  one,  for  on  some  unaccountable  ground  he  had 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  57 

taken  a  dislike  to  his  near  neighbor ;  I  am  afraid  because 
he  was  his  near  neighbor  and  part  proprietor  of  his 
precious  avenue. 

Muriel  said  nothing — as  usual.  In  all  praise  or 
blame  of  Mr.  Leigli  her  part  was  silence. 

In  justice,  she  told  herself,  she  could  play  echo  to  no 
opinion ;  she  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Leigh,  good  or  bad, 
and  it  was  not  for  her  to  speak. 

A  fortnight  passed. 

The  ewes  were  lambing  and  the  shepherds  were  bus}--. 

Mr.  Leigh,  being  poor,  possessed  only  one  shepherd 
and  a  lad  as  auxiliary,  and  consequently  was  compelled 
to  bear  a  hand,  which  he  did,  adding  the  work  to  his 
already  long  list  of  labors  stoically  and  cheerfully. 

Thus  Muriel,  from  her  window,  which  overlooked  the 
Holme  Pasturage,  could  see  his  stalwart  figure  passing 
among  the  ewes,  and  reprehensibly  fell  into  the  habit 
of  leaning  against  the  sill  and  contemplating  it. 

"  He  works  from  morning  till  night,  and  often  from 
night  to  morning  again,  and  takes  no  pleasure.  Indeed, 
where  is  he  to  get  it,  without  a  soul  to  speak  to  in  that 
old  house,  and  not  a  voice  to  cheer  him  ?  Poor  Mr. 
Leigh ! " 

Meanwhile  poor  Mr.  Leigh,  quite  unconscious  of  the 
pity  his  industry  had  awakened  in  the  tender  bosom  of 
liis  neighbor's  daughter,  toiled  on,  and  very  likely  would 
have  forgotten  her  existence  had  not  an  incident 
occurred  which  brought  about  a  meeting. 


68  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER 

Muriel  was  queen  of  her  own  dairy,  and  made  tbe 
best  butter  in  the  county — so  said  tlie  farmer,  and, 
though  a  too  partial  judge,  he  was  a  duly  qualified  one. 

Women,  even  in  matters  of  strict  business,  must  liave 
their  little  favoritisms,  and,  of  course,  Miss  Holt  had  a 
favorite  cow. 

Daisy  Spot,  so  called,  it  is  presumed,  from  a  white 
star  upon  the  patient  creature's  bony  forehead,  was 
milked  by  her  mistress's  own  hands — an  honor  which 
Daisy  so  little  appreciated  that  she  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  overturning  the  pail. 

One  afternoon  in  the  second  week  of  Mr.  Leigh's 
arrival,  Muriel  had  carried  her  pail  down  to  the  paddock, 
milked  Daisy  and  stood  with  one  bare,  shapely  arm 
resting  on  its  broad  back  and  the  other  strained  at  the 
full  pail  ready  for  the  start  home. 

In  this  attitude  Mr.  Leigh  came  upon  her. 

However  curt  he  might  be  in  his  intercourse  with 
men,  there  was  no  remission  in  his  politeness  to  the 
gentler  sex. 

His  head  was  bared  in  an  instant  and  he  turned  from 
the  path  down  which  he  was  speeding,  hat  in  liand. 

Muriel  extended  her  hand  across  the  cow — Daisy  re- 
fused to  move — and  with  a  smile  he  took  it. 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Holt.     A  full  pail  ?  " 

"  Very,"  said  Muriel,  "  see  !  " 

He  nodded. 

*'  A  good  cow,"  he  said,  scanning  Daisy's  points  with 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  59 

his  calm  gray   eyes.     "  And  your  favorite,    doubtless. 
Are  you  going  to  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  lifting  the  pail. 

"  Let  me  carry  it  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Muriel,  "  I  am  used  to  it ;  it 
is  no  great  weight " 

But  very  gently,  but  also  very  firmly,  he  took  the 
pail  from  her  and  walked  along  as  if  he  were  carrying  a 
paper  balloon. 

"  You  are  very  busy  now,"  said  Muriel,  walking  at 
his  side  and  wondering  why  men  should  be  so  much 
stronger  than  women. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  am  short-handed,  and  the  lambs 
are  troublesome." 

"  Are  they  all  doing  well?"  asked  she. 

"  Yes,  very,"  he  said.  "  No  fault  to  find  with  the 
cattle,"  he  added,  gravely. 

She  noticed  the  emphasis  and  the  distinction. 

"  Is  the  land  not  satisfactory  ?  "  she  said. 

He  laughed  a  short,  curt  laugh. 

"  No ;  far  from  it,"  he  replied.  "  It  has  been  starved. 
I  can  scarcely  believe,  looking  at  that  field,"  nodding 
at  some  Rubywood  wheat,  "  and  that,"  waving  his 
hand  to  a  piece  of  the  Holme  land,  "  that  they  lie  so 
close  together." 

Muriel  sighed  softly. 

"  It  will  be  hard  work  for  you,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  that  is  a  comfort,"  he  replied. 


60  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

She  looked  up  surprised. 

"  A  comfort  ? "  she  repeated.  "  One  generally 
counts  that  a  trouble." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  not  to  me.  Work  is  my  only  pleas- 
ure, and  the  harder  the  better.  An  idle  man  is  an  un- 
happy one " 

"  And  one  too  hard  worked  is  a  weary  one,"  inter- 
rupted Muriel,  gently. 

"  All  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy,"  he 
repeated,  smiling.  "  That  proverb's  not  unqualified 
truth,  Miss  Holt ;  there  are  few  things  you  can  take  to 
excess  that  will  do  you  less  harm  than  hard  work." 

"  I  can't  argue,"  said  Muriel,  "  but  I  do  not  confess 
myself  convinced." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  that  is  the  vanquished's  privilege. 
But  how  is  it  that  you,  who  are  an  advocate  for  less 
work,  fail  to  carry  out  your  doctrine  in  practice  ?  This 
pail  is  too  heavy  for  your  hands,"  and  he  glanced 
gravely  at  the  small  fists  grasping  the  milking-stool. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  underestimate  my  strength,"  she  said.  "  I  can 
carry  that  pail  easily.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  now. 
I  am  taking  you  from  the  Holme." 

*'  No,"  he  said,  "  I  can  cut  across  by  the  foot-path, 
and  I  would  rather  carry  it,  please.  A  magnificent  sun- 
set. The  marquis's  trees  over  yonder  are  turned  to 
gold,  if  he  but  knew  it." 

"  You  are  an  admirer  of  nature  ?  "  said  Muriel. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  61 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Leigh.  "An  humble  one.  Who's 
not?" 

"Farmers  very  often,"  replied  Muriel.  "They  grow 
too  accustomed  to  all  the  varying  changes,  and  view 
them  from  a  money-making  light.  The  clouds  mean 
nothing  to  them  but  showers  for  the  young  wheat,  the 
noonday  sun  but  the  ripening  power  for  the  full  ear,  the 
thunder-storm  counts  as  nothing  more  than  a  destroyer 
of  blight,  and  a  sunset,  well,  I  suppose — ^that  being  of 
little  palpable  use  in  agriculture — passes  unregarded." 

Mr.  Leigh  was  guilty  of  a  prolonged,  genuine  stare. 

Was  this  the  daughter  of  a  country  farmer  or  a  pupil 
of  Minerva — philosophy  in  the  disguise  of  a  dairymaid 
with  a  milking-stool  for  stylus  ? 

"There  are  farmers  and  farmers,"  he  replied,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  he  allowed  his  astonishment  to 
politely  evaporate.  "I  am  not  an  enthusiast — one  in  a 
neighborhood  is  sufficient,  and  you  have  Mr.  Vandike — 
but  I  love  nature ;  indeed  I  have  nothing  else  to  love." 

A  strange  speech,  savoring  of  effeminacy  from  a 
strong,  healthy  man's  lips,  but  it  had  nothing  about  it 
ridiculous  coming  from  him,  for  it  was  simple,  solemn 
truth,  and  was  spoken  as  truth  should  be — ^gravely  and 
TV'ithout  strain  for  effect. 

Muriel  looked  straight  before  her  and  then  up  at  a 
starling. 

"You  are  alone  in  the  old  house?"  she  said. 

"Quite,"  he  said,  "save  for  an  old  housekeeper." 


.63  FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"Do  you  not  feel  solitary  and  low-spirited?"  she 
asked,  looking  at  him  seriously,  and  then  away  at  the 
grim  old  farmstead  and  its  fallen  shutter. 

"No/*  he  said,  with  a  low  laugh.  "As  I  never  take 
refuge  in  it  until  I  am  thoroughly  tired  I  am  too  sleepy 
to  indulge  in  melancholia.  Now  you  understand  why  I 
need  hard  work." 

She  nodded, 

"I  was  thinking "  she  said,  then  stopped. 

He  looked  at  her  patiently  and  inquiringly. 

"That — ^my  father  would  be  glad  to  see  you  at  Ruby- 
wood  any  time,  any  evening.  We  are  almost  always 
alone,  and " 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  gratefully.  "Do  not  think 
me  churlish  if  I  refuse,  but  at  present  what  with  my 
lambs  and  my  poor  land  I  have  too  much  work  even  for 
such  a  pleasure  as  you  hold  out  to  me." 

The  refusal  was  certainly  not  given  churlishly,  but  it 
was  given  firmly,  and  Muriel  did  not  repeat  or  press  the 
invitation  more  warmly. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  dairy. 

Mr.  Leigh  set  the  pail  down  on  the  threshold  and 
stood  hat  in  hand  ready  to  say  good-bye. 

Muriel  held  out  her  hand  with  a  slight  blush  and  a 
simple  but  kindly  "thank  yon." 

Mr.  Leigh  took  the  hand  and  bent  over  it,  then,  with' 
an  answering  "good-night,"  turned  round,  and,  in  doing 
so,   nearly  knocked   down  Mr.    Heatherbridge,   who  had 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  63 

come  up  the  path  in  time  to  see  the  relinquishment  of 
the  milking-pail  and  polite  farewell. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Leigh,  with  his  grave 
smile. 

"I — ^I  beg  yours,"  said  Mr.  Heatherbridge,  holding 
out  his  hand  but  not  very  graciously,  and  with  a  ques- 
tioning look  and  a  straightening  of  his  lips  that  were 
anything  but  friendly. 

"A  fine  evening,"  said  Mr.  Leigh,  passing  on  as  he 
spoke. 

"Yes,  very,"  said  Mr.  Heatherbridge,  passing  on,  too, 
but  with  a  much  less  composed  stride,  and  with  a  face 
uncomfortably  agitated. 

Muriel,  who  had  watched  the  encounter,  now  turned 
to  the  door  and  nodded,  smiling. 

"How  gently  you  came  up!  I  never  heard  you." 

"No?"  said  Mr.  Heatherbridge  rather  grimly.  "Too 
much  engaged,  perhaps;  indeed,  perhaps,  I'd  better 
have  waited  awhile?" 

"What  for?"  said  Muriel,  in  perfect  innocence. 

"Oh — ^nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Heatherbridge,  rather 
inconsistently.     "I  am  sorry  if  I  interrupted,  though." 

"Interrupted — oh,  you  mean  Mr.  Leigh.  No,  indeed 
you  did  not.  He  had  carried  my  milk-pail  from  the 
meadow.  An  unnecessary  piece  of  politeness,  but  still  a 
kind  one.  He  thought  it  too  heavy  for  me."  And  as 
ehe  lifted  it  on  to  the  shelf  she  laughed  musically. 

"Ah,    northern    fine    manners,    no    doubt,"    said    Mr. 


64  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Heatherbridge.  "We  men  can  scarcely  get  a  civil  an- 
swer from  him,  indeed." 

"His  politeness  is  all  the  more  flattering,  then,"  said 
Muriel,  laughing  light-heartedly.  "But  why  are  yon 
BO  doleful  to-night?  Has  anything  gone  wrong  at  the 
Howe?" 

"No,  nothing,"  he  said,  coming  up  and  leaning 
against  the  door.  '^Nothing  at  the  Howe — ^leastways 
that  I  know  of ;  a  master's  eyes  can't  be  in  every  corner. 
But  there's  something  wrong  over  Tidesdale.  Aunt 
Dorothy  is  taken  ill,  and  I  am  summoned  there  post 
haste." 

"Post  haste!"  repeated  Muriel,  all  anxiety,  reproach, 
and  astonishment;  "Then  why  haven't  you  gone?  Oh, 
dear  me,  how  can  you  lean  there  as  if  nothing  was  the 
matter !" 

"I  haven't  seen  her  for  three  years,"  pleaded  the 
young  man. 

"All  the  more  reason  that  you  should  hasten,  for  fear 
you  may  never  see  her  again,"  said  Muriel,  gently  but 
firmly. 

"Tidesdale  is  forty  miles  across  country,"  said  the 
lover,  looking  up  imploringly.  "I  shall  be  away  two, 
three  days,  perhaps  a  week.  I  couldn't  go  without  say- 
ing I  was  going,  without  leaving  word  with  the  farmer." 

Muriel  moved  impatiently. 

A  man  who  would  dangle  at  her  heels  for  love  of  her 
while  a  dying  relative  called  in  vain,  was  little  likely  to 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  65 

■win  her  heart  by  that  sort  of  devotion,  if  only  Mr. 
Heatherbridge  could  have  seen  it. 

But  he  was  mentally  blind,  with  a  lover's  natural  ob- 
tuseness  and  a  fresh  attack  of  jealous)-. 

It  was  quite  bad  enough  to  leave  the  coast  clear  for 
three  daj-s  to  that  wooden-headed  painter  fellow,  but 
simply  intolerable  to  do  so  with  a  new  and  more  for- 
midable suitor  in  the  field,  for  of  course  the  ardent  Mr. 
Heatherbridge  could  not  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
any  man  coming  within  the  radius  of  Muriel's  bright 
glances  without  bending  the  knee,  least  of  all  a  man 
■who  commenced  thus  early  by  carrying  milk-pails. 

"  Well,"  said  Muriel.  Father  is  in  the  parlor  making 
up  his  books  ;  go  and  tell  him  yourself.  I  am  sorry  for 
the  poor  lady  lying  waiting  for  you." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Mr.  Heatherbridge.  "  Indeed,  I  am 
sorry  to  go,  for  I  wanted " 

"  Good-by,"  said  Muriel,  not  unkindly  but  firmly, 
and  the  owner  of  the  Howe  turned  round  and  walked 
quickly  into  the  house. 

"Eh,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  "your  Aunt  Dorothy 
Heatherbridge  ill  ?  Go  at  once,  my  lad  ;  why,  the  farm 
be  worth  twenty  thousand  pounds!  *Sent  for  you?' 
Why,  Alfred,  man,  delay's  dangerous — that's  Scripture 
or  something  that's  equally  powerful.  Say  good-by  to 
Muriel  and  go  at  once." 

"  I  have  said  good-by  to  Miss  Holt,  farmer,"  said  Mr. 
Heatherbridge  as  he  retreated,  and  the  farmer,  catching 


66  PARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  rather  dissatisfied  tone,  looked  after  him  with  a  dis- 
quieted countenance. 

"Dorothy  Heatherbiidge  is  worth  twenty  or  thirty 
thousand,  and  tliere  bean't  a  nearer  kin  to  her  than  the 
lad.  Why,  he  will  be  the  richest  man  in  Berkshire. 
What's  happened  with  Muriel !  He  looked  like  a  three- 
cornered  hat,  all  points."  And,  shaking  his  head,  he 
returned  to  his  columns,  the  contents  of  which  required 
*«  totting  up,"  a  result  attained  only  by  great  travail 
and  mental  labor. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  67 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Oh,  clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 

And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss. 
For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 

A  thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this. 
Forgive  if  somewhile  I  forget 

In  woe  to  come  the  present  bliss, 
As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 

Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 
E'en  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss, 

The  sunniest  things  throw  gloomiest  shade, 
And  there  is  e'en  a  happiness 

That  makes  the  heart  afraid, 

— Hood. 

"With  relief  Muriel  accepted  Mr.  Heatherbridge's  ab- 
sence, and  welcomed  Mr.  Leigh's  acquaintance  with  a 
corresponding  amount  of  pleasure. 

It  was  an  acquaintance  that  grew  rapidly,  for  after 
that  meeting  in  the  meadow  they  ran  against  one  an- 
other frequently. 

The  spring  grew  into  summer,  with  all  that  delicious 
splendor  of  progress  which  nature  alone  enjoys  and  art 
pants  for  in  vain. 

The  fields  had  clothed  themselves  with  a  fine  warp 
and  woof  of  green,  waving  wheat  and  barley,  the 
meadows  were  ankle  deep  in  sweet-scented  grass  and 
purple  clover. 


68  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Down  by  the  brook  at  the  back  of  the  Holme  the 
meads  had  taken  unto  themselves  garments  of  gold,  and 
the  buttercups  were  nodding  and  laughing  in  the  open 
glades  of  Hopwood. 

All  the  Solomons  or  all  the  silk  looms  of  Lyons  in  all 
their  glory  could  not  rival  the  beauty  of  the  modest 
wild  flowers  that  Muriel  crushed  beneath  her  light, 
graceful  feet  at  every  step,  and  high  in  the  heavens  the 
lark  and  the  blackbird,  the  starling  and  the  thrush 
laughed  the  sweetest  of  human  minstrels  to  scorn, 
and  trolled  out  defiance  mingled  with  pity,  as  if 
saying : 

"  Sing  on,  ye  children  of  the  earth,  ye  pigmies.  We 
sing  at  the  gates  of  Heaven  !  " 

In  all  this  beauty  the  bright  English  girl  and  the 
hard-working,   open-hearted,  solitaiy   man   met   often. 

There  were  pauses  in  the  daily  toil  for  a  little  rest, 
a  little  pleasure,  and  their  rest  and  pleasure  they  took 
often  by  the  brook. 

Habit  is  second  nature,  and  as  the  afternoon  wore 
round  Wynter  Leigh  grew  unconsciously  to  think  and 
long  for  a  seat  on  the  fallen  elm  by  the  babbling  stream, 
and  wending  thither  was  almost  sure  to  find  Muriel 
there,  seated,  perhaps  book  in  hand  or  standing  by  tha 
stream  and  listening  to  its  murmurs. 

Thus  meeting,  they  talked  and  grew  confidential. 

"Wynter  Leigh,  with  the  candor  of  a  simple,  truthful 
nature,  gradually  found  a  nameless  delight  in  opening 


FAEMER  HOLT^S  DAUGHTER.  69 

his  mind  to  the  eager  ears  of  the  beautiful,  sympathetic- 
eyed  girl. 

He  talked  of  his  old  home,  of  his  dead  people  ;  she 
listened  eagerly  and  shed  tears  unseen  ;  she  suffered 
with  him.  He  talked  of  his  favorite  dogs,  of  some 
ludicrous  scene  in  the  northern  kitchen  ;  she  laughed 
with  him.  He  talked  again  of  his  hopes,  of  the  luck 
he  had  found  in  his  cattle;  she  rejoiced  with  him. 

The  stream  has  only  one  resting-place,  and  through 
all  its  windings  and  meandering,  though  it  seems  to 
have  forgotten  its  far-away  home,  it  is  ever  tearing  down 
to  the  ocean.  Such  intercourse  as  this,  stray  and  wander 
from  the  straight  course  as  it  might,  had  only  one 
bourne,  and  that  was  love. 

One  morning  "Wynter  Leigh  woke  wdth  the  truth 
flashed  into  his  soul. 

He  loved  Muriel  Holt. 

She  was  the  earth's  gladness,  and  without  her  life 
had  lost  its  salt. 

To  such  a  man,  earnest,  single-purposed,  such  a  con- 
sciousness was  momentous. 

He  carried  the  secret  with  him  for  three  days,  looked 
at  his  sheep,  trampled  across  his  fields,  plucked  ears  of 
growing  corn  with  it  echoing  in  his  mind  and  thrilling 
in  his  ears  with  each  note  of  the  birds. 

On  the  fourth  day  he  met  Muriel,  and  his  hearf 
seemed  to  leap  forth  and  claim  her  as  its  own. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  as  they  shook  hands,  "  I  thought 


•J-O  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

you  had  neglected  the  old  haunt — had  grown  tired  of 
it " 

"  And  me,"  he  had  almost  added,  but  stopped  short. 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  I  shall  never  do  that,  but  I  have 
been  busy.  I  am  father's  housekeeper  as  well  as  his 
daughter." 

He  nodded. 

« I  know." 

Muriel  seated  herself  on  the  fallen  elm  ;  Wynter 
Leigh  threw  himself  down  almost  at  her  feet,  the  crushed 
buttercups  clung  to  him  reproachfully  but  unheeded. 

"  Did  I  not  hear  the  bell  tolling  this  morning  ?  "  he 
said,  after  a  few  moments'  silence. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  "  for  Mrs.  Dorothy  Heather- 
bridge,  Mr.  Heatherbridge's  aunt.     She  died  last  night." 

He  looked  grave. 

"  Mr.  Heatherbridge  has  been  away  with  her,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

Muriel  inclined  her  head. 

"  Yes,  he  will  stay  till  after  the  funeral.  I  have  been 
looking  after  his  turkeys,  that  has  made  me  so  long." 

•'  Looking  after  his  turkeys  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  simply. 

She  saw  nothing  uncommon  or  significant  in  the  fact. 

"  Father  promised  to  look  after  the  farm,  and  he  for- 
got the  turkeys.  Poor  things !  because  they  are  ugly 
and  only  fowls  they  would  have  been  neglected  mosj; 
like." 


FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  71 

Mr.  Leigh  looked  relieved. 

"You  have  known  Mr.  Heatherbridge  some  time?  " 
he  said. 

"Yes,  since  we  were  children,"  replied  Muriel. 

*'  Do  you  remember  our  first  meeting  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "and  how  communicative  I  was. 
Do  you  know  I  thought  you  were  Mr.  Leigh  until  you 
asked  the  way  to  Hopwood,  and  then  passed  the  Holme 
without  going  in  ?  " 

"  Communicative,"  he  said.  "  You  must  have  thought 
me  inquisitive.  Do  you  know  I  wanted  only  to  put 
one  question  ?  " 

"  Did  you — what  was  it  ?  "  said  Muriel. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  you  who  you  were,"  he  replied. 

She  smiled. 

"  I  should  have  told  you,  and  not  thought  you  rude 
either.  Our  manners  here  at  Rubywood  are  what  Mr. 
Vandike  calls  unsophisticated." 

"  Mr.  Vandike  expresses  his  unflattering  opinions 
freely,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  He  is  very  good-natured,"  she  said. 

"  That's  high  praise ;  how  it  would  gratify  him,  or 
any  one,  to  liear  you  say  it.     What  are  you  reading  ?  " 

She  held  the  book  back  downwards,  and  he  took  it 
from  her. 

"  Browning,"  he  said,  glancing  at  it,  and  looking  up 
at  her  thoughtfully.  "  And  you  understand  it?  Why, 
I  wonder,  when  to  so  many  it  is  an  enigma  ?  " 


72  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

**  That  is  a  compliment,"  said  Muriel,  with  an  un- 
grateful frown.     "  Give  me  back  my  book,  please." 

He  held  up  the  book,  and  as  she  took  it  their  hands 
met. 

It  was  the  tiny  hole  in  the  outwork  of  calm,  and  the 
tide  of  passion  swept  through. 

His  strong  hand  closed  on  the  book,  fingers  and  all, 
and  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

She  looked  up,  innocently  enough,  then  quickly 
lowered  her  eyes,  trembling  and  half-frightened,  for  it 
was  the  first  time  she  had  seen  perfect  love  in  a  man's 
face,  and  there  is  a  sort  of  grandeur  in  it  that  approaches 
the  awful. 

"  Muriel,*'  he  said,  in  a  low,  quick  voice,  bending 
over  her  and  keeping  the  fingers  still,  though  the  book 
had  dropped  among  the  flowers,  "  Muriel,  I  cannot  keep 
silence  any  longer.  You  have  not  seen  the  brook  for 
three  days,  nor  I  you,  but  I  have  learned  a  life's  lesson 
in  that  little  while.  Cannot  you  guess  what  it  is?  I 
have  learned  that  I  love  you — love  you,  Muriel.  Oh, 
that  I  could  find  words  to  tell  you  how  dearly,  how 
truly.  Look  at  me,  Muriel,  dear  Muriel,  and  see  how 
I  love  you.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  startled  you  I  I  am 
a  rough,  awkward  man,  not  fit  to  touch  you,  and  I  did 
not  mean  to  speak — at  least,  till  I  had  gained  permis- 
sion— but — but — my  love  has  eaten  me  up,  body  and 
soul,  and  when  my  hand  touched  yours  'twas  as  if  our 
heai-ts  had  met.     Oh,  Muriel,  speak!     Tell  me  that 


FAKMBR  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  73 

you  are  not  angry,  that  you  do  not  hate  me — that  you 
will  strive  to  love  me,  even  to  like  me  a  little  ! " 

He  was  on  one  knee  beside  the  elm,  and  was  leaning 
forward  in  an  eager  attempt  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her 
hidden  face ;  he  could  feel  her  small  hand  tremble  in 
his,  like  the  heart  of  a  captive  dove. 

"  Oh,  speak,  Muriel,"  he  pleaded,  putting  up  one 
hand  to  her  arm.  "  Only  a  word — one  little  word  to 
tell  me  I  may  hope " 

Muriel  stopped  him  effectually. 

She  rose,  put  both  hands  up  to  her  face  and  sobbed. 

Aghast,  and  positively  white,  Wynter  Leigh  bent 
over  her,  grasping  her  hand,  and  struggling  manfully 
with  the  fearfully  strong  desire  to  clasp  her  to  his 
heart. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,"  he  pleaded,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  "  do  not  cry.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself,  never, 
for  so  frightening  you.  Muriel,  I  will  go  away,  do  any- 
thing, but  don't  cry ;  every  sob  stabs  me  to  the  heart." 

Muriel  choked  back  her  tears  and  sank  down  again ; 
she  even  uncovered  her  face,  and  sat,  blushing  and  sor- 
rowful, gazing  downwards. 

Wynter  Leigh  bent  over  her,  his  heart  beating  fast. 

"You  have  forgiven  me  ?"  he  whispered  ;  "  you  will 
say  Yes  ?  Muriel,  you  know  I  love  you  !  "  And  as  he 
spoke  his  hand  tightened  on  her  arm. 

She  turned  pale,  and  her  head  dropped  low. 

It  was  not  saying  "  yes,"  but  Wynter  Leigh  inter- 


74  FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

preted  it  rightly,  and,  with  a  sharp,  quick  sigh,  caught 
her  to  him. 

"Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,"  he  whispered,  "I 
never  thought  I  should  be  so  happy.  You  are  more 
than  life  to  nie.  You  cannot  guess  how  I  love  you. 
Will  you  not  say  you  love  me?  Think  what  joy  it 
would  give  me." 

"  I  do  love  you,"  said  Muriel,  in  a  tone  almost  too 
low  for  him  to  hear.     "  But " 

"But  what?  But  nothing!"  he  exclaimed,  hotly. 
"If  you  love  me  ever  so  little,  I  care  for  nothing — no 
one  else.  There  is  no  one  who  can  ever  part  us.  I  will 
go  up  to  Ruby  wood  at  once,  before  the  sun  sets,  and 
beg  for  you — aye,  as  a  man  pleads  for  his  life !  " 

Muriel  trembled  and  drew  back  from  him. 

"  To-night  ?  "  she  said,  wistfully  and  sorrowfully. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  eagerly,  struck  by  her  manner. 
"Why  and  what  do  you  fear?  Surely,"  and  he  turned 
white,  "  surely  you  are  not  promised  to  any  one  else  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  she  breathed  quickly,  then  turned  her  head 
away,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"No?  What  then,  my  darling?"  he  murmured, 
stiiving  to  draw  her  to  him.  "  Do  you  fear  your — 
father?" 

Muriel's  face  was  answer  enough.  His  own  grew 
hot  and  crimson.  He  could  not  choose  but  remember 
that  he  was  a  Leigh,  and  that  through  the  whole  course 
of  his  life  he  had  never  done  aught  to  cast  a  shadow  on 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  75 

the  old  name.  He  was  a  farmer — Farmer  Holt's  high- 
est estimate  of  a  man. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  I  had  forgotten.  I  am  poor, 
Muriel.     You  fear  for  that." 

"  Not  for  myself,"  said  Muriel,  turning  to  him  at 
once,  her  soft  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  sending  a  thrill 
through  him  at  its  touch.  "  Not  for  myself — you  know 
that — but  my  father.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  him.  He 
is  so  good,  so  kind,  but — he  never  goes  from  his  word 
or  his  wish,  aud — and " 

He  took  her  hand  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips. 

It  was  his  first  kiss,  and  no  companion  of  Arthur's 
Table  Round  could  have  given  it  with  more  knightly 
reverence. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  and  I  had  forgotten.  Nay,  I 
remembered  nothing  but  my  love,  and  I  can  scarce  think 
of  anything  else  even  now.  Do  you  think  I  love  you 
the  less  for  refusing  to  give  the  shadow  when  your 
father  holds  the  substance,  my  darling?  for  you  are 
mine,  though  the  whole  world  rose  and  stood  between 
us.  You  are  mine,  Muriel,  my  very  own,  if  Heaven's 
love  counts  as  part  of  us — mine  whether  I  win  you  from 
your  father  or  not.  Mine !  Oh,  Muriel,  you  do  not 
know  what  a  strong  man's  love  is !  With  that  word 
graven  on  my  heart,  1  could  go  to  the  grave  for  you  I 
How  much  more  fearlessly  can  I  go  to  ask  him  for  you  ? 
Don't  fear,  my  darling ;  no  man  could  win  such  a  price- 
less jewel  without  a  struggle  for  it,  no  man  deserves 


76  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

to  wear  it  who  would  shrink  from  the  battle.  I'll  go 
to  him  to-night — I  will  tell  him  the  truth." 

Muriel's  face  grew  white  ;  she  knew  what  a  bitter 
mockery  the  truth  would  be,  with  all  the  strength  on 
one  side  and  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance  for  the  weaker 
one. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  forced  to  speak  in  her  agony. 
"  No,  no,  do  not  go  to  him.  It  is  useless.  You  do  not 
know  him.  Oh,  what  will  you  think  of  me  for  speak- 
ing like  this?  But  I  cannot  help  it.  He  will  send  me 
away — he  loves  me  better  than  anything  in  the  world, 
but  he  is  so  firm,  so  stern,  and  I  know — I  know — he 
will  not  say  yes." 

She  did  not  ciy  now,  her  heart  was  too  full  of  de- 
spair, for  she  knew  the  truth,  the  bitter  truth. 

Wynter  Leigh's  dark  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground 
for  a  few  minutes.  They  were  moist  and  tremulous, 
but  infinitely,  passionately  tender  when  he  lifted  them 
to  her  face  again. 

*'  My  darling,"  he  said,  "  I  understand,  believe  that 
I  understand ;  if  you  uttered  no  words,  my  love  is  so 
great  that  my  heart  would  glean  your  meaning  from 
your  face.  I  know  all  you  would  say,  and  I  know  that 
it  must  be  true.  Farmer  Holt  is  a  good  and  a  kind 
man.  He  has  said  that  you  shall  not  marry  a  poor  man, 
and  you  know  it.  You  know  that  he  would  take  some 
strong  measures — send  you  away,  perhaps  " — his  voice 
quivered  a  little  there — "  put  you  out  of  my  reach,  sepa- 


FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  77 

rate  us — cut  us  off  from  hope.  You  know  him  and  his 
nature  better  than  I  could  ever  learn  to  do.  You  know 
the  danger  to  be  feared.  Separate  us  !  My  darling,  I 
could  not  bear  it — I  could  love  and  struggle  with  the 
faintest  hope  of  you — but,  without,  life  would  not  be 
worth  having.  I  am  silent.  He  shall  hear  no  word  of 
it.     I  have  your  love " 

"  No,  no,"  pleaded  Muriel.  "  We  must  never  meet 
again.     I  cannot,  I  will  not  deceive  him." 

The  strong  man  sank  on  the  tree,  his  head  lowered, 
his  hands  clasped  out  in  front  of  him,  perplexed,  agi- 
tated, and  moved  to  his  innermost  soul. 

Then  he  sprang  up,  a  noble  resolution  in  his  face. 

"  Be  it  so !  "  he  said,  looking  her  in  the  face.  "  My 
love  is  stronger  than  death.  Give  me  your  hand, 
Muriel,  and  let  me  look  into  your  eyes.  .  .  .  You  will 
be  true  ;  your  eyes  cannot  deceive.  I  ask.  j^ou  to  wait 
six  months.  I  have  a  plan  which  I  will  work  out — it 
shall  succeed,  for  my  love  will  make  it.  Then  I  will  go 
to  him  and  ask  him  to  give  you  to  me — a  little  less  poor 
but  not  a  whit  more  worthy." 

Muriel  listened  to  the  heart-stirring  love,  kept  back 
her  tears,  and  extended  her  hand,  longing  with  heaven 
knows  what  intensity  to  throw  herself  upon  his  breast. 

He  caught  her  hand — both  of  them — pressed  his  lips 
to  them  passionately,  then,  forming  the  words,  "  Fare- 
well, Heaven  bless  you,  my  darling,"  with  his  trembling 
lips,  hurriedly  left  her. 


78  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

For,  if  doubt  were  not, 
Whose  sore  shafts  spare  not, 
Large  life  would  care  not 

For  death's  poor  hour, 
Seeing  all  life's  season 
By  love's  sweet  reason 
Made  wise  in  his  eyes  would  seem  a  flower. 

— Stoinbume. 

So  they  parted,  these  two — Muriel  Holt  and  Wynter 
Leigh — and  for  them  it  is  scarcely  too  much  to  say  the 
whole  face  of  nature  was  changed. 

For  them  there  was  a  new  meaning  in  the  lyrics  of 
the  birds,  for  them  the  bees  gathered  something  sweeter 
than  honey  in  the  wayside  flowers,  for  them  the  bubble 
of  the  brook  was  a  song  of  love,  and  the  sun  a  revela- 
tion of  some  divine  benevolence  whose  end  and  aim  was 
peace  and  happiness. 

Muriel,  with  that  silent  joy  which  the  heart  feels 
when  it  has  met  its  mate,  trod  lightly  home  and  entered 
the  threshold,  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  passion  and 
purpose.  Her  father  looked  up  as  she  entered  and 
nodded  admiringly,  thinking  she  grew  more  beautiful 
every  day,  and  counted  her  in  his  heart  well  worthy  to 
be  the  mistress  of  the  house. 


FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  79 

Wynter  Leigh  tramped  home  most  of  the  way  bare- 
headed, his  heart  full  of  love,  the  very  air  odorous 
with  it,  the  landscape  itself  smiling  hopefully  and  en- 
couragingly, and  his  own  steadfast  mind  teeming  with 
his  new  idea. 

The  old  woman  who  acted  as  housekeeper  was  nearly 
startled  by  the  sunlight  on  his  face,  and  quite  so  when, 
in  a  higlier  tone  than  she  had  yet  heard  use,  he  said : 

"  Dame,  air  me  a  change  of  things ;  I  am  going  on  a 
journey  to-morrow." 

Then  he  drank  his  draught  of  ale,  took  a  crust  of 
bread  and  a  slice  of  cheese  in  his  hand  and  tramped  off 
again. 

Everything  about  the  farm  was  right,  or,  if  not,  with 
a  word  or  with  his  own  hands  he  set  it  right,  then 
strode  off  to  his  sheep  and,  seating  himself  by  his  old 
shepherd,  said,  in  his  curt,  kindly  way : 

"  William,  I'm  going  north  to-morrow.  Have  you 
an}'^  message  to  the  village  folk  ?  " 

"  Nowt,  I  thankee,  Measter  Leigh,"  returned  the  old 
man,  gratefully.  "  It's  like  thee  to  think  o'  me.  Heaven 
speed  thee,  Measter  Wynter,  on  every  path,  north  or 
south." 

"  Amen !  "  said  young  Leigh,  with  that  simple  rever- 
ence for  the  blessing  of  the  aged,  which  wins  reverenca 
for  itself  in  return. 

"  May  an  old  servant  ask  what  takes  thee  north, 
measter?     Is  it  cattle  ?  " 


80  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

*'  Ay,  rather  more  important  business,  of  which  I'll 
tell  you  all  in  good  time,  Old  Will.  Look  you  after 
the  sheep,  though  I  know  you  will  do  that  as  if  they 
were  your  own.  We're  fighting  a  hard  fight.  Will,  but 
we'll  conquer." 

"  That's  like  you,  Measter  Leigh,"  returned  the  old 
man,  with  a  flash  of  enthusiasm.  "  Thee  looks  brighter 
to-night  than  I'  a'  seen  thee  since  that  dark  day.  You 
be  brave  and  strong,  and  I  don't  fear  the  fight, 
not  I,  hard  tho'  it  be.  And  so  good  night,  Measter 
Leigh." 

"  Good  night,  Old  Will,"  said  the  young  master, 
gently  but  heartily,  and  away  he  went,  looking  at 
his   sheep  from   right   to  left   of   him  with  regardful 


Early  in  the  morning  his  light  dog-cart  rattled  up  the 
avenue  with  him,  and  Muriel  Holt,  from  behind  her 
curtain,  saw  him  cast  a  long,  eager  look  towards  the 
spot  where,  unseen,  she  stood,  then  lift  his  whip  hand  to 
his  lips. 

Though  no  one  else  could  have  understood  his  gesture 
as  a  caress,  she  read  it  aright,  and  flushed  and  thrilled 
all  through  with  the  answering  leap  of  love,  and  could 
not  find  voice  for  a  moment  to  answer  the  stentoriat 
tones  of  Farmer  Holt  calling  her  to  breakfast. 

"  Leigh's  started  off  early  this  morn,"  he  said,  mop- 
ping his  face  with  his  large,  red  handkerchief. 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel,  behind  the  urn. 


FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  81 

**  Ay,  an'  looking  as  liappy  as  a  young  throstle.  He 
was  whistling,  I  think,  which  is  an  uncommon  gay  thing. 
for  him.     Wonder  where  he's  gone  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Muriel. 

"No,  I  doan't  suppose  you  do,"  retorted  her  father, 
innocently  enough,  though  the  remark  made  Muriel  pale. 
"  He's  as  close  as  a  badger  to  his  own  men,  'tisn't  like 
you'd  know,  my  lass.  Isn't  that  young  Jaffer  there? 
Why  don't  the  oaf  come  in  ?  Come  in,  Jaffer  !  "  he  roared, 
nodding  at  the  boy's  face  framed  in  the  window  with  a 
grotesque  grin. 

*'  Come  in,"  said  Muriel,  more  gently,  opening  the 
door  as  she  spoke. 

"  What  is  it — a  letter  ?  "  she  added,  as  Jaffer,  having 
ventured  beyond  the  threshold,  paused  irresolute,  star- 
ing at  the  table  and  grinning  violently. 

"  Ees,  Miss  Mur'l." 

"Whost  for— I?"  asked  Farmer  Holt. 

"It  be  for  you,  farmer,"  said  Jaffer,  with  a  most 
appalling  guffaw. 

"  Give  it  me,  then  ;  the  lad  holds  it  as  grip  as  a 
hawk." 

But  as  Jaffer,  who  had  no  doubt  been  earnestly  ad- 
monished to  take  care  of  the  epistle,  seemed  reluctant  to 
part  with  it,  even  to  its  rightful  owner,  Muriel  took  it 
from  his  hand  and  passed  it  to  her  father. 

"  Hem ! "  growled  the  farmer,  after  reading  it, 
*'  From  young  Alf ;  obliged  to  go  to  London  to  see  one 


82  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

of  them  lawyer  thieves.  Something  the  matter  with  the 
will,  and  the  rascals  want  to  pluck  him — they'll  do  it  if 
he  shows  a  feather  they  can  lay  hold  of ;  trust  the  law- 
yera  for  that.  What's  this  at  the  bottom?  The  lad 
can  farm  better  than  he  can  write.  Heaven  be  praised  I 
Read  it,  you,  lass,  for  if  I'm  not  mistaken  there's  your 
name  amongst  it." 

Muriel  took  the  letter  and  read  out  the  illegible  scmwl : 

"  '  Ask  Miss  Muriel  not  to  forget  me  if  I  am  compelled 
to  remain  away  for  a  week  or  two.' " 

"  Ah !  ah ! "  laughed  the  farmer,  not  ill  pleased. 
"That's  the  way  the  wind  blows,  is  it?  You  can 
write  him  back  :  '  Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,* 
lass,  and  set  the  boy's  mind  at  rest."  And  he  laughed 
again,  awakening  a  terrific   echo  in  Jaffer. 

Muriel  hid  her  embarrassment  by  cutting  a  huge  slice 
of  bread  and  bacon  for  Master  Jaffer,  and,  setting  his 
cap  on  his  bead,  which  she  knew  would  otherwise  re- 
main uncovered  until  he  got  home,  started  him  ofE  by 
leading  him  to  the  door  and  whispering: 

"  Good-by,  Jaffer." 

The  farmer  then  said : 

"  I'll  just  go  up  to  the  Howe  and  see  that  things  are 
straight — it's  only  neighborly,  and  you  may  as  well 
come  along,  too,  lass,  and  look  after  the  fowls." 

All  the  way  Farmer  Holt  expatiated  on  the  wealth 
of  the  Howe  and  the  excellencies  of  its  young  master, 
and  once,  as  they  approached  the  awkward  corner,  ho 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  83 

stopped  and,  raising  his  stick,  pointed  to  it  with  some 
inaudible  remark,  which  he  did  not  repeat,  though 
Muriel,  breaking  silence  for  the  first  time,  asked  him 
to. 

The  preceding  night  she  had  several  times  regretted 
that  she  had  prevented  Wynter  Leigh  from  coming  to 
her  father  and  asking  for  her  openly  and  without  delay. 
She  had  called  herself  hard  names,  cried  even  over  her 
**  unmaidenly  conduct,"  but  now  she  knew  that  she  had 
acted  rightly,  for  her  instinct  told  her  that  her  father 
had  set  his  heart  upon  her  marrying  the  master  of  the 
Howe. 

In  five  days  Wynter  Leigh  returned. 

The  dog-cart  met  him  at  the  nearest  station,  which 
was  six  miles  ofip,  and  brought  him  back  as  quietly  as  it . 
had  taken  him. 

Muriel  did  not  know  that  he  had  returned  until  later 
in  the  evening,  when,  going  to  the  milking,  she  met 
him  face  to  face  at  the  corner  of  the  avenue. 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  that  eventful 
night,  and  for  a  moment  they  both  stood  silent  and 
moved,  she  showing  her  emotion  by  a  sudden  flush  and 
as  sudden  a  pallor,  he  by  a  quick,  eager  light  in  his  ex- 
pressive eyes  and  a  tremor  of  the  lip. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and,  without  a  word,  though 
his  eyes  spoke  plenty  and  eloquent  ones,  he  pressed  it, 
relinquished  it  slowly,  and  strode  on. 

She  saw  him  go  down  to  his  sheep,  and  envied  old 


84  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

William,  who  could  sit  beside  his  master  and  hear  hia 
deep,  rich  voice  without  let  or  hindrance. 

"  Well,  Will,"  said  Leigh,  laying  his  hand  on  the  old 
man's  shoulder,  but  looking  back  wistfully  to  the  corner 
where  Muriel's  slight,  graceful  form  had  disappeared ; 
"  I  am  back,  you  see." 

"  Ay,  Heaven  be  praised  !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  It 
be  a  long  journey." 

"  Yes,"  said  his  master,  raising  his  hat  and  brushing 
back  his  hair  with  an  abrupt  gesture,  habitual  with  him 
when  he  was  thinking  deeply — "yes,  and  I  did  not 
take  it  for  nothing.  Will.  The  Leighs  were  never  good 
at  asking  favors,  were  they  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  hearty  smile ; 
"  you  were  always  a  proud  lot,  father  and  son,  Measter 
Wynter." 

"  Ah,  that  accounts  for  the  difficulty  I  found  in 
setting  about  it  now.  Well,  I've  been  favor  beg- 
ging-" 

"  Not  you  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  half  incredulously. 

"  Yes,  I,"  said  Wynter  Leigh.  "  You  remember  old 
Jonah  Leigh,  of  Ci-ewkerne  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  do,"  said  the  old  man.  "  A  reg'lar  Leigh, 
Measter  Wynter — close  as  an  oyster." 

"  Well,  I  have  asked  him  to  lend  me  three  thousand 
pounds,  and — he  has  done  it." 

*'  I'm  gettin'  to  believe  in  most  *straordinary  things 
in  my  old  age,"  said  the  old  man,  simply. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  85 

"  Yes,  though  I'm  fain  to  believe  it  was  pride,  Will 
— Leigh  pride.  '  You  can  do  so  much,  you  say,  if  I  lend 
you  the  money  ?  '  he  said.  '  Well,  the  Leighs  should 
uphold  the  name  in  a  strange  place.  There's  the  money. 
Go  and  do  it.'  " 

"  Three  thousand  pounds  ! "  repeated  the  shepherd 
"  It's  a  miracle,  Measter  Leigh,  and  he'll  repent  him  and 
kill  himself." 

"  And  now,  Will,  for  the  modus  operandi,  or  in  other 
words,  the  way  in  which  the  three  thousand  pounds  are 
to  raise  a  Leigh  from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 
This  is  good  pasture,  but  in  bad  condition,  you  know. 
It's  no  use  grumbling  at  the  bad ;  best  turn  it  to  good, 
80  I'm  going  to  feed  a  hundred  prime  cows,  Will,  and 
go  in  for  milk." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,"  said  Leigh.  "  Yesterday  I  signed  the  contract 
to  supply  one  of  the  large  London  milk  companies  with 
so  many  gallons  a  day,  come  good,  come  ill,  and  to  pay 
a  penalty  in  hard  coin  if  I  fail." 

"  Measter  Wynter,  you  bean't  doing  anything  rash  ?  " 
he  breatlied. 

"  No  ;  I  am  but  putting  into  practise  a  favorite  saying 
of  yours,  Will,  '  Nothing  venture,  nothing  have.'  This 
three  thousand  pounds,  turned  into  cows,  will  yield  me 
a  large  profit,  and  then " 

The  old  man  gazed  up  into  his  face  and  caught  the 
direction  ot  his  eyes. 


86  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Affection  makes  even  old  eyes  sharp,  and  the  little 
ones  of  the  old  man  grew  dim  with  sudden  tears. 

"  Measter  Leigh,"  he  muttered,  "  Heaven  speed  thee 
whate'er  thy  path,  whether  it  be  cows  or  contracts, 
which  latter  I  don't  understand." 

"  Thanks,  Will ;  and  now  for  the  sheep." 

The  reader  may  feel  rather  surprised  at  Mr.  Leigh's 
sudden  communicativeness,  but,  though  he  would 
scarcely  have  owned  it  to  himself,  he  had  an  object  in 
making  a  confidant  of  Old  Will. 

Old  Will  was  a  favorite  with  Muriel,  and  he  secretly 
hoped  and  believed  that  at  their  next  meeting  the  old 
man  would,  without  betraying  confidence,  tell  her 
enough  to  assure  her  of  his  earnestness. 

The  same  motive,  or  one  of  a  similar  nature,  led  him 
up  to  Old  Goody's  cottage  that  evening,  where  he  had 
earned  himself  a  welcome  by  bringing  a  bottle  of  wine 
occasionally  and  talking  in  his  kindly  fashion  to  Jaffer. 

To-night  he  sat  on  the  old  bench  beside  the  door  and 
drank  in  thirstily  a  long,  detailed  account  of  Miss 
Muriel's  birth,  habits,  manners  and  virtues,  to  which  he 
had,  with  reprehensible  artfulness,  led  the  conversation. 
He  could  not  in  honor  see  her  and  talk  to  her.  The 
next  best  thing  was  to  see  and  talk  to  one  who  had 
seen  her  sweet  face  and  heard  her  dear  voice  only  a  few 
hours  before. 

So  there  he  sat,  listening  with  all  his  heart  and  ears 
to  petty  details,  which,  to  any  other  but  a  lover,  might 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  87 

have  seemed  trivial,  snapping  up  any  unconsidered 
trifle  that  related  to  his  beautiful  Muriel  with  the 
greediness  of  an  alligator,  and  thinking  even  Goody's 
voice  musical  while  she  crooned  his  darling's  name. 

At  the  same  time,  by  way  of  parallel.  Miss  Muriel 
sat  on  a  heap  of  hurdles  beside  William's  shepherd's 
cart,  and  listened  to  a  longwinded  account  of  Measter 
Wynter's  doings,  and  received  as  much  consolation  and 
delight  from  it  as  the  doting  old  man  could  desire. 

At  this  time  Mr.  Alfred  Heatherbridge  was  being 
plucked  by  the  lawyers  in  London,  happily  unconscious 
of  the  evil  star  that  was  setting  ou  his  hopes  and 
expectations. 


88  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  or  sinew  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 
Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest. 

— Wordsworth. 

Two  or  three  days  after,  Farmer  Holt,  standing  at  the 
entrance  of  the  avenue,  was  stricken  with  astonishment 
at  the  appearance  of  a  large  drove  of  cattle  making  ap- 
parently, straight  for  him.  He  cleared  out  of  the  way 
slowly  and  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"  Whose  beasts  are  these,  my  man  ?  "  he  shouted. 

"  For  the  Holme  Farm,"  replied  the  driver,  and  the 
farmer  was  about  to  assure  him  that  there  was  a  mistake 
when  the  apparition  of  old  William's  stolid  face  at  the 
tail  of  the  procession  satisfied  him  that  his  neighbor, 
Mr.  Leigh,  was  "  going  heavily  into  milk  !  " 

With  a  groan,  for  he  could  not  but  think  of  the  daily 
transit  of  four  hundred  hoofs  through  his  dearly  loved 
avenue,  he  trudged  off,  pulling  up,  however,  before  he 
had  got  far  away,  in  response  to  a  panting  voice  calling 
him  by  name. 

The  summons  proved  to  proceed  from  the  aristocratio 
lungs  of  Mr.  Vandike,  who,  very  much  out  of  breath  and 


FARMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  89 

otherwise  discomposed,  came  up,  wiping  his  face  with 
an  immaculate  handkerchief. 

"  By  Jove  !  Mr.  Holt,  how  you  walk.  I  saw  you  at 
the  end  of  the  lane,  and  thought  I  should  catch  you 
up  easil}',  but  your  long  stride  put  me  to  shame.  Aw- 
ful hot,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  uncommon  healthy  hot,"  retorted  the  farmer, 
who  was  not  in  the  humor  to  relish  fashionable 
adjectives.  *'  It's  ripening  the  corn,  if  that  be 
awful." 

"  Ah,  just  so  ;  excuse  me,  I'm  not  up  to  farming ;  and 
— and — by  the  way,  can  you  give  me  a  minute  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  doing  now  ?  "  asked  the  farmer,  not 
rudely,  but  with  simple  astonishment. 

"  Eh — eh  ?  I  meant  in  private,  but  this  is  private 
enough,"  looking  round  and  seeing  no  one  but  a  plow- 
man half  a  mile  off.  "  I'm  going  to  ask  a  favor  of  you 
— the  greatest  favor  you  could  grant,  Mr.  Holt — and,  in 
short;  I've  put  it  off  for  some  time  because — well — I'm 
not  a  good  hand  at  this  sort  of  thing ;  in  fact  I've  never 
done  it  before.  Mr.  Holt,  you  know  my  position  pretty 
well ;  I'm  an  enthusiast  at  my  art,  and  I  think  I  may 
say  that  I  stand  a  fair  chance  of  turning  out  success- 
ful. You  know  they've  hung  me  at  the  academy  this 
year " 

Farmer  Holt  stopped  in  his  trudge,  and  stared  at  tho 
artistic  features  as  if  he  feared  their  owner  had  taken 
leave  of  his  senses,  though  not  his  life. 


90  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Bless  the  man !  "  he  exclaimed,  shaking  his  head,  as 
iT  the  puzzle  were  too  much  for  him.  "  Hung  you  at 
the  academy  ?     What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  my  pictuie,  of  coui-se,"  explained  Mr.  Van- 
dike,  more  confused  and  embarrassed  than  ever.  "I 
mean  my  picture,  of  course — and  that's  a  great  honor  for 
a  young  artist,  sir.  The  critics,  too,  speak  well  of  it,  and 
I  have  made  a  step  forward  in  my  career.  I'm  not  a 
poor  man,  either,  as  times  go,  Mr.  Holt,  and,  in  short,  I 
am  come  to  ask  you  to  give  me  your  daughter.  Miss 
Muriel." 

Farmer  Holt  stopped  as  if  he  had  been  shot  in  the 
back,  pulled  round  and,  confronted  the  artist  as  if  ha 
were  some  monster  in  a  show. 

"Give— you — ray — Muriel,"  he  repeated,  slowly. 
Then  tramping  on  again  as  he  spoke,  "  Young  sir, 
you're  mad  as  a  March  hare." 

Mr.  Vandike,  too  astounded  at  the  the  reception  of  his 
proposal  to  speak  for  a  moment  or  two,  almost  ran  at  his 
side,  silent. 

"  Well,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  turning  to  him,  "  haven't 
you  gone  yet?  Give  you  my  daughter  Muriel?  Not 
if  there  weren't  another  man  in  the  country.  Mr.  Van- 
dike,  I  don't  mean  any  offense,  but  when  my  girl  marries 
she'll  many  a  farmer.  Tliat's  a  sort  of  man  1  under- 
stand ;  he  grows  corn  and  trees,  and  owns  fields  and 
farms.  I'll  never  consent  to  her  marrying  a  man  who 
only  paints  'em," 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  91 

Mr.  Vandike  opened  his  mouth  and  shut  it  again. 

"  Are  you  serious,  Mr.  Holt?"  he  said,  fumbling  for 
his  glasses,  as  another  man  would  have  fumbled  for  his 
stick  or  Ills  sword. 

"  That  I  am  and  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  the  farmer. 
"But  look  3^ou  here,"  he  added,  thoughtfully,  "don't 
take  any  offense,  for,  on  my  honor,  I  don't  mean  any,  and 
you  know  it.  Simply,  I  don't  understand  artists  and 
artists'  ways.  My  girl's  a  simply  country  lass — true  of 
heart,  mind  you,  and  as  good  as  a  parson — but  she  don't 
understand  them,  either,  and  I  know  she  wouldn't  be 
happy  with  them  ;  so  think  no  more  about  it,  because  I 
tell  you  I  won't  give  my  consent,  and  I  know  her  too 
well  to  fear  she'll  marry  without  it." 

"  But,"  urged  the  enamored  artist,  "  surely  you  will 
let  me  try  my  fortune  with  Miss  Holt,  sir,  if — if  I  have 
had  the  good  fortune  to  gain  her  heart,  you  will  at  least 
give  me  time?  I'll  turn  farmer  if  you  like — anything 
— but  let  me  hear  from  her  own  lips  that  there  is  no 
hope  for  me." 

The  farmer  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  Well,  so  you  shall,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  on  one  con- 
dition, and  that  is,  if  Muriel  says  no,  you  pack  up  and 
make  studies  of  cows  and  trees  in  another  county. 
Come,  it  is  not  a  very  hard  bargain,  young  man,  for 
you're  not  very  hot  on  the  lot,  you  know."  And  ha 
looked  the  artist  full  in  the  face. 

Mr.  Vandike  colored — truth  always  tells — but  would 


92  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

not  admit  that  he  was  lukewarm,  and,  without  a  word, 
turned  off  to  the  farm. 

He  found  Muriel  sitting  at  the  window  working — or, 
rather,  resting  from  w^ork,  for  her  sweet  face  was  leaning 
upon  her  hand  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  table  thought- 
lessly. 

Mr.  Vandike  fancied  that  he  saw  tears  in  them,  but 
Muriel  looked  up  so  merrily  and  smiled  so  happily  that 
he  was  sure  he  had  been  mistaken,  and  put  the  fancy 
down  to  his  embarrassment. 

*'  Miss  Holt,  I've  just  seen  your  father,"  he  said,  fum- 
bling for  his  eyeglass,  which  from  the  first  moment  of 
his  proposal  had  slipped  over  his  shoulder  and  added  to 
his  confusion.     "  He  sent  me  on  to  you " 

"  Yes,"  said  Muriel.  "  Has  he  left  anything  behind  ? 
What  is  it?" 

"  No,  no ! "  said  Mr.  Vandike.  "  I  asked  him  a 
question,  and  at  first  he  said  no,  but  afterwards  he 
agreed  if  you  would  say  yes,  he  would  change  it  to 
yes,  too.  " 

"  Well,"  said  Muriel,  taking  up  her  work,  all  uncon- 
scious. "  And  pray  what  was  it?  Do  you  want  to  take 
my  new  colt  ?  " 

*'  No,"  said  Mr.  Vandike,  fumbling  for  his  eyeglass 
and  taking  out  his  crested  handkerchief  nervously. 
"No  ;  I  want  to  take  you,  my  dear  Miss  Holt." 

"  Me  I  "  said  Muriel.  "  I  can't  spare  the  time,  you 
know,  for  a  full-length  picture,  Mr.  Vandike." 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  93 

"  Not  for  a  picture,  but  for  my  wife,  dear  Muriel," 
said  Mr.  Vandike,  leaning  on  the  table. 

Muriel  dropped  her  work  and  looked  up,  pale,  troubled 
and  sad. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vandike,"  she  said,  in  her  low,  grave  voice 
*'  I  am  so  sorry  !     Oh,  say  you  are  not  in  earnest ;  it  is 
only  one  of  your  horrid  jokes  !     Don't  look  so  serious ! 
You  cannot  tell  how  grieved  I  shall  be  if  you  are  un- 
happy I     But  you  are  not  serious,  are  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Vandike,  shaking  his  head, 
with  a  sigh.  "  Don't  you  say  no,  please  don't.  I'm  such 
an  unlucky  fellow  always  ;  the  thing  never  will  come 
right  when  I  want  it,  and  I  never  can  get  the  shadows 
in ;  there's  always  something  comes  and  spoils  my  picture^ 
Now  I've  got  hung  at  the  academy  you  won't  spoil  my 
pleasure  by  saying  no.  Miss  Muriel,  surely  !" 

Muriel,  with  the  instinct  of  her  womanhood,  knew  that 
the  wound  was  only  skin  deep,  and  that  his  love  for  her 
was  of  that  kind  which,  in  artistic  jargon,  he  would  have 
called,  "  half  tint,"  so  she  acted  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  and  wisely. 

"Mr.  Vandike,"  she  said,  '•  I'm  a  simple  country  girl, 
a  farmer's  daughter ;  you  are  the  nephew  of  a  lord,  a 
gentleman  and  an  artist.  Look  me  in  the  face  and  tell 
me  as  a  gentleman  and  an  artist  if  you  think  in  your 
heart  of  hearts  I  am  a  fit  wife  for  you.  There  is  nothing 
in  common  between  us.  You  would  tire  of  me — or  what 
jou  fancy  in  me — before  a  mouth  had  passed,  and  would 


94  FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

sigh  for  a  proper  companion  in  one  of  the  great  London 
ladies,  who  understand  your  life  and  its  purposes.  Am 
I  speaking  too  wisely  for  such  an  ignorant  girl  ?  I  can 
only  say  what  I  feel.  Dear  Mr.  Vandike,  we  have  been 
so  happy  together,  but  if  I  tliought  you  really  loved  me 
I  should  be  miserable  for  every  merry  hour  we  have  so 
enjoyed.  You  don't  love  me,  no — no — no — you  know 
you  don't  !  and  I  know  you  don't.  And  you  won't  make 
me  unhappy  by  pretending  to  be  very  much  hurt  when  I 
sav  what  dear  father  has  said  already." 

Mr.  Vandike  blew  his  nose  very  heartily  and  looked 
out  of  the  window. 

Muriel  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his. 

"  You  have  forgiven  me  for  speaking  so  forwardly,'* 
she  said,  "  and  we  shall  part  friends  ?  " 

"  That  we  shall,  Miss  Holt,"  said  the  young  gentle- 
man, suddenly  removing  his  gaze  to  her  face  and  grasp- 
ing her  hand.  "  And — and  I  shouldn't  be  acting  hon- 
orably if  I  didn't  say  that  I  think  you're  right,  after  all. 
Not  that  you  are  not  worthy  to  be  the  wife  of  a  king, 
but — but  that  I  don't  love  you  half  so  well  as  you 
deserve,  though  if  I  stayed  here  within  sight  of  you 
another  day,"  he  added,  earnestly,  '*  by  Jove  !  I  should 
love  you  all  that  and  a  trifle  over.  So  I'll  go,  and  I 
wish  you  abetter  man.     Miss  Holt,  good-by." 

"Good-by,"  said  Muriel,  and  she  struggled  against 
her  tears,  for  she  knew  the  worth  of  the  heart  that  beat 
beneath  the  veneer  of  fashion  and  London  manners — 


FAEMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  95 

**good-by.  We  shall  meet  again,  I  feel  sure,  and  thea 
be  better  friends  than  ever.  You  will  be  a  great  man, 
whom  your  wife  will  be  proud  of,  and  I  shall  cry  over 
every  success  you  make — so  there  I  I'm  almost  crying 
now.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Mr.  Vandike,  shaking  her  hand 
again,  and  away  he  went,  stopping,  however,  at  the 
corner  to  look  back  and  mutter : 

"  I'm  half  afraid  I  do  love  her  now,  by  jingo  !  I  wish 
I  had  a  study  of  her  in  sepia  to  cry  over." 

Muriel,  though  she  had  no  sepia  sketch  of  Mr.  Van- 
dike,  had  a  good  cry,  not  over  her  departed  lover,  but 
for  him  who  was  near  at  hand  and  for  herself,  who 
was  so  unhappy  as  to  have  so  many  proposing  suitors 
when  the  favored  one  was  compelled  to  hold  his  peace. 

In  came  the  farmer,  and  found  her,  not  in  tears,  but 
scarcely  recovered  from  them. 

"Well,  lass,"  he  said,  eying  her  earnestly,  "that 
artist  fellow  is  packing  up  his  traps  and  is  off  to  Lou- 
don.    Has  he  been  to  say  good-by  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Muriel,  and  her  tears  threatened 
again. 

"  Hem  !  "  said  the  farmer,  chuckling.  "  See  what  it 
is  to  have  a  pretty  face,  lass.  Every  idiot  on  the  high- 
way fancies  himself  in  love  with  it.  But  dry  your  eyes, 
my  dear;  there's  good  corn  among  the  weeds.  Heaven 
be  praised,  and  a  fair  sample  is  coming  this  way.  Al- 
fred comes  back  to-night." 


96  FAEMEE  HOLT^S  DAUGHTEE. 

Muriel  started. 

Another  and  harder  trouble  was  approaching  then. 

*'Mr.  Heatherbridge  coming  from  London  to-night?" 
ehe  said,  in  that  absent  way  one  uses  when  speaking 
because  speech  is  expected  of  us. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Heatherbridge,"  repeated  tlie  farmer,  com- 
ing behind  her  and  laying  his  hand  gently  on  her  liead. 
"  But  why  so  cold  and  stately,  lass  ?  A  little  while 
ago  it  was  *  Alfred,'  sweet  and  kind  like,  now  it's  Mr. 
Heatherbridge,  prim  as  a  parish  clerk.  Oh,  I  see,  '  The 
maiden  coy  slipped  down  the  vale.'  What's  that  old 
song  your  poor  mother  used  to  sing,  something  about 
the  milking-pail  ?  Here,  by  the  bye,  that  sets  me  off 
again.  What'll  you  think,  lass,  of  our  neighbor,  young 
Leigh?" 

Muriel's  heart  leaped  and  her  head  dropped  lower 
over  the  needle. 

"  What  has  he  done,  father  ? "  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  Took  a  drove  of  stock,  a  hundred  cows  if  there  was 
one,  tramping  down  the  avenue  like  the  beasts  out  of 
Noah's  Ark.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  buy  that  farm  and  so 
be  rid  of  it  ?  "     And  he  groaned. 

**  Why  didn't  you,  father  ?  "  asked  Muriel,  afraid  to 
remain  silent,  yet  knowing  not  what  to  say. 

"  Why,  eh  ?  Because  I  didn't,"  said  the  farmer. 
"  Perhaps  I  had  something  else  to  do  with  the  money, 
lass,"  and  he  stroked  the  beautiful  head.     "  Perhaps 


FAKMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  97 

I'm  a  fond  old  idiot — indeed,  as  Alfred  'ud  say,  most 
like  I  am.  But  there,  you  love  your  old  father,  lassie 
dear,  don't  you  ?  " 

Muriel  turned  and  threw  her  arms  round  his 
neck  without  a  word.  She  could  not  trust  herself  to 
speak. 

It  seemed  so  hard  to  love  him  so  dearly  and  yet  keep 
a  secret — such  a  secret,  too — from  him. 

"  Ah  ! "  sighed  the  squire,  "  I  don't  like  my  new 
neighbor ;  young  men — farmers  especially — are  so  pig- 
headed there's  no  trusting  them.  What's  he  want  a 
hundred  cows  for?  What  will  he  do  next?  Some- 
thing unpleasant  and  awkward  I'll  be  bound." 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Muriel,  in  a  low  voice.  "  'Tis  not 
like  you  to  be  so  unjust!  Mr.  Leigh  has  never  done 
an  unkind  or  unneighborly  thing  to  you  yet.  It  was 
not  pigheaded,  surely,  to  take  so  much  trouble  about 
the  straw-yard,  the  first  night,  too,  and  so  late.  He  has 
had  so  much  trouble,  that  makes  him  quiet,  and  he 
works  so  hard,  and  for  all  the  annoyance  he  gives  us 
the  Holme  might  be  empty  now." 

"  Hoity-toity  ! "  exclaimed  the  farmer,  sinking  into 
his  chair  with  his  usual  violence.  "  Mr.  Leigh's  in 
your  good  books,  lass  !  Quite  the  champion,  I  do  de- 
clare. But  nobody's  finding  fault  with  him  as  yet ; 
plenty  of  time  to  pity  him  when  they  do.  I'm  only  a- 
grieving  over  the  avenue,  and  you  know  it's  a  sore 
point  with  me." 


98  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

*'  Why  do  you  not  make  some  arrangement  with  Mr. 
Leigh  ?  Buy  the  avenue  if  it  is  his  to  sell.  He  would 
make  another  entrance,  do  anything,  rather  than  give 
you  a  moment's  pain !  " 

"  Hera  !  "  said  the  farmer,  looking  at  lier  till  he  for- 
got to  light  his  pipe  and  the  wisp  of  paper  was  burnt 
out.  "  You  seem  to  know  a  deal  of  young  Leigh,  most 
of  his  mind  included.     Have  you  seen  much  of  him  ?  " 

Before  Muriel  could  reply  the  dogs  set  up  a  warning 
bark,  a  tap  came  to  the  door,  and,  glad  of  the  excuse  to 
hideber  sudden  flush,  she  ran  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  stepped  in. 

"  Hullo,  Alf,  my  lad,"  exclaimed  the  father,  setting 
down  his  pipe.  "  Welcome  back — quiet,  you  dogs — 
welcome  back,  my  lad ;  it  seems  an  age  since  I  sav7 
thee  ! " 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  shook  hands,  then  turned  to 
Muriel,  who  stood  glad  and  yet  sorry  to  see  her  old 
playmate  back  again. 

"  Not  a  word  for  me,  Muriel  ?  "  he  said,  half  reproach- 
fully. 

"  Yes,  a  great  many,"  said  Muriel,  and  shook  hands. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  the  farmer,  "  and  tell  us 
the  news.     Muriel  can  ring  for  a  jug  of  ale  and  a  pipe." 

While  Muriel,  instead  of  ringing,  fetched  them  with 
her  own  hands,  Mr.  Heatherbridge  opened  his  budgeji 
of  news. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  99 

As  he  had  expected,  his  Aunt  Dorothea  had  left  him 
the  farm  and  all  the  money  she  died  possessed  of. 
*'  Unto  those  that  have  much  shall  be  given."  But, 
though  it  was  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff,  the  lawyers  man- 
aged to  find  a  hole  in  the  will,  and  Mr.  Heatlierbridge 
had  been  mending  it  in  London  at  no  small  expense. 

While  he  told  his  tale  his  eyes  wandered  constantly 
to  where  Muriel  sat,  and  a  smile  grew  on  the  farmer's 
face  as  he  noticed  the  errant  glances. 

"And  so  it's  all  settled,  Alfred,"  he  said.  "Fill 
your  glass,  lad  ;  I'm  almost  as  glad  to  see  you  as  the 
father  was  the  prodigal  son — and  you're  quite  a  wealthy 
man.  Fancy  the  Howe  and  Mrs.  Dorothea's,  what  a 
responsibility  !     Hah !  hah  !  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  young  Heatherbridge,  glancing 
at  Muriel  nervously.  "Almost  more  than  a  young 
fellow  can  manage — alone." 

"  Not  more  than  he  can  enjoy,"  laughed  the  farmer. 
"Well,  we've  taken  care  of  the  farm  for  you,  lad. 
There's  Muriel,  there,  a'  been  a  mother  to  the  chickens, 
and  a'  looked  after  the  birds  as  if  they'd  been  her  own." 

"  I'm  very  grateful  to  Muriel,"  said  Mr.  Heather- 
bridge  looking  round  at  her  tenderly.  "  I  knew  slie'd 
be  kind  enough— she  is  all  kindness  and  though tful- 
ness." 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  said  Muriel.  "  I  am  all  forgetful- 
ness,  for  to-night's  Saturday  night,  and  I've  forgotten 


100  FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  clean  clothes.  Have  you  any  more  news  ! — if  so, 
please  save  it  till  I  come  back."  And  with  a  smile  she 
took  up  a  candle  and  left  the  room. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  rose  to  open  the  door,  and  stood 
looking  after  her  for  a  full  minute.  Then  he  came 
back  and  seated  himself  at  the  table,  and  commenced 
fidgeting  with  the  black  studs  at  his  wrist. 

"  I'm  glad  to  get  back,"  he  said,  presently. 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  lad,"  said  the  farmer.  "  A 
farm's  ill-gadding  without  a  master." 

"Ay;  but  for  more  reasons  than  the  farm"  said 
young  Heatherbridge.  "  Farmer,  did  Muriel  ever  tell 
you  of  a  conversation  we  had  just  before  I  went  away  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  farmer,  puffing  hard  at  his  pipe,  '*  no, 
lad." 

"  "Well,  I  thought  perhaps  she  had.  I  asked  her  to 
be  my  wife,  farmer;  indeed,  I've  loved  her  a  long 
time." 

Farmer  Holt's  heart  beat  fast  and  his  eyes  winked. 

"  Yes,  lad,"  he  said,  "  and  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  gave  me  no  answer,"  said  young  Heatherbridge, 
nervously ;  *'  indeed  she  ran  away."  And  his  face 
clouded. 

"  Hah  !  hah  !  "  laughed  the  farmer,  "  she  did,  did  she, 
the  minx  ?  Don't  look  so  down,  lad ;  you  don't  under- 
stand 'em  ;  they're  coyer  than  you  think.  Run  away, 
did  she  ?    Hah  I  hah  I "    And  he  laughed  at  such  an 


FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  101 

excellent  joke  as  any  girl  running  away,  even  in  play- 
fulness, from  the  owner  of  the  Howe,  Mrs.  Dorothea's 
farm,  and  ever  so  many  thousands  in  the  County  Bank. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge's  face  brightened. 

"  You  don't  think  she  meant  to  give  me  the  cold 
shoulder,  farmer  ?  " 

"  Not  she,"  retorted  the  farmer.  "  Haven't  you  been 
boy  and  girl  together  since  ye  were  girl  and  boy  ?  Ah, 
lad,  you  don't  know  'em.  If  she'd  stopped  I'd  a'  said 
things  looked  awkward,  but  she  run  away.  Hah ! 
hah  I " 

"  And  what  do  you  say,  farmer  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Heath- 
erbridge,  eagerly.  "  You  know  me  and  my  affairs ; 
you  know  I'm  as  fond  of  Muriel  as  I  can  be,  head  over 
heels  in  love  with  her,  and  that  I'll  do  everything  that's 
handsome  in  the  way  of  settlements.  If  you'll  give 
your  consent  and  she'll  give  her  hand  I'll  lay  down 
twenty  thousand  pounds  for  her — or  more,  farmer,  if 
you  think  it  well !  " 

"  No,  no,  that's  plenty,  lad,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  begin- 
ning to  draw  a  plan  on  the  table  with  his  finger. 
"  Twenty  thousand  pounds  is  a  splendid  settlement,  but, 
mind,  it's  not  a  penny  more  than  the  dear  lass's  due, 
and,  to  show  you  I  say  no  empty  words,  look  you 
here  !  "  And  he  leant  over  the  table  and  looked  eagerly 
at  the  other  eager  face  opposite  him.  "The  day  she 
marries  you,  lad,  I'll  hand  you  ten  thousand  pounds  as 
her  dowry  I " 


102  FARMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Mr.  Heatheibridge  was  speechless. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  but  faintly. 

A  rich  man  always  wants  more,  and  ten  thousand 
pounds  unexpectedly  seemed  delicious. 

"  Ay,  ay !  "  said  the  farmer,  triumphantly,  "  I'll  do 
it,  lad,  I  promise  you,  and  I'll  ask  only  one  thing  in 
return." 

"  What's  that  ? "  asked  young  Heatherbridge, 
"though  you  needn't  mention  it,  farmer,  for  I  say  Yes 
to  it  whatever  it  is — if  you'll  but  give  me  Muriel 
alone." 

"  Yes,"  said  Farmer  Holt,  and  he  pointed  to  the  plan 
on  the  table.  "  This  corner — you  knew  it,  lad?  Often 
and  often  have  we — ^your  father  and  I — haggled  over  it. 
That  corner  spoils  my  land,  that  corner  I  must  have  if 
you  have  my  Muriel  and  her  dowry  !  " 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  held  out  a  hand  that  trembled 
like  a  leaf. 

"  A  corner !  "  he  breathed,  eagerly.  "  You  shall  have 
it  all,  farmer,  every  inch,  only  let  me  have  Muriel." 

"  Done  with  you,"  laughed  the  farmer,  "  for  the  cor- 
ner alone,  lad.  And  now  go  and  try  your  fortune ; 
the  dear  lass  is  in  the  parlor,  and  here's  good  luck  to 
thee  ! "  And  he  raised  his  tankard  and  drank  it  at  a 
draught. 

Away  went  Mr.  Heatherbridge,  and  the  farmer,  left 
alone,  sat  and  touched  up  his  plan,  chuckling.  His 
daughter  would  be  mistress  of  the  Howe,  the  squire's 


FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  103 

wife !  He  would  have  the  much  and  long  coveted 
corner  I  Was  there  ever  such  a  happy  old  man  in  the 
world  ? 

The  door  was  flung  open  and  Mr.  Heatherbridge 
stood  on  the  raised  step,  looking  very  pale  and  agitated. 

The  farmer  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  stared 
at  him. 

"What  ails  thee,  lad?"  he  gasped.  "Can't  you 
speak,  man  ?  What  does  she  say?  She'll  marry  you 
and  thank  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Heatherbridge,  hoarsely,  shaking  his 
head.  '*  Your  daughter  refuses  me,  Farmer  Holt,  and 
says  '  no  '  and  '  never ! '  " 

The  farmer  rose  with  a  huge  imprecation. 

"  Muriel !  "  he  shouted. 

Muriel  came  forward,  pale  and  trembling,  but  with  a 
light  in  her  eye  that  was  lit  there  by  love's  faith. 

"  Come  here,  my  lass,"  said  the  farmer,  slowly  and 
sternly,  and  he  took  her  small,  cold  hand.  *'  Squire 
Heatherbridge  yonder  does  you  and  me  the  honor  to 
ask  you  to  wife.     What  do  you  say,  my  lass  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  father  !  "  pleaded  the  poor  girl,  trying 
to  hide  her  face  against  his  stubborn  shoulder. 

But  the  old  man  drew  away  from  her  and  stared  piti- 
lessly before  him. 

"  What  do  you  say,  I  ask  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Muriel.  "  I  cannot ! — I  cannot  say 
Yes!" 


104  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Young  Heatherbridge  turned  towards  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

**  Go  from  my  sight !  "  said  the  farmer,  sternly,  rais- 
ing his  hand  and  pointing  to  the  passage  door,  and 
Muriel,  with  bent  head  and  trembling  feet,  obeyed. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  105 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Courage,  my  comrades,  we've  all  heard  the  old  proverb  : 
•*  The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth." 
O'er  many  a  stone  the  stream  fights  on  to  ocean. 

— Buchanan. 

"  Go  from  my  sight !  "  were  the  firet  harsh  words  poor 
Muriel  had  ever  received  from  her  father,  and  their 
anger  and  bitterness  simply  overwhelmed  her. 

Mr.  Leigh,  who  generally  saw  her  from  a  distance, 
tripping  light-heartedly  down  to  the  meadow,  and  was 
cheered  and  lit  up  for  the  day  by  the  sight,  missed  her 
the  next  morning,  and  the  next.  Then  he  grew  alarmed 
and  repaired  to  Goody's  cottage. 

"  Was  Miss  Holt  unwell  ?  " 

When  he  asked,  Jaffer  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Jaffer  ?  "  asked  Leigh, 
more  anxious  than  before,  for  it  was  well  known  that 
Jaffer  always  laughed  heartiest  at  the  most  sorrowful 
events. 

"He!  He!"  said  Jaffer,  "Miss  Mur'l  been  a  bad 
girl ;  the  farmer  he  blow  her  up — blow  her  up  like  a 
bellows  into  her  room  up-stairs,  and  she  never  came 
down  iicrain." 


106  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

This  was  all  that  could  be  got,  and  Leigh,  troubled 
and  distressed,  was  fain  to  march  off  and  see  to  his 
cows. 

Soon  after  tidings  reached  him  through  a  more  reli- 
able source. 

Old  William  was  trudging  down  the  avenue  shaking 
his  head. 

"  What's  the  matter.  Will  ?  "  asked  Leigh,  who  knew 
every  shifting  expression  on  the  weather-beaten  face. 
*' Anything  wrong  with  the  sheep?  " 

*'No,  Measter  Wynter,"  replied  the  old  man.  "The 
sheep  be  all  right.  Heaven  be  praised  ;  but  I've  just 
heem  that  Miss  Muriel — bless  her  pretty  face  ! — is  sadly 
like,  and  keeps  t'  her  room." 

"Where  did  you  hear  that?"  asked  Leigh,  leaning 
on  his  stick,  and  turning  pale  and  red  alternately. 

"  At  t'  farm  ;  I  met  t'  farmer  comin'  through  the 
yard  like  a  turkey-cock,  all  comb  like.  '  What's  the 
matter  with  the  measter?'  says  I.  'Oh,'  says  Bill 
Twaed,  '  he  be  in  a  tantrum  over  Miss  Muriel,  as  be  ill 
indoors.'  " 

Leigh  strode  off  without  a  word,  making  straight  for 
Rubywood,  and  had  not  proceeded  a  couple  of  hundred 
yards  before  he  saw  the  farmer  himself,  who  certainly 
justified  old  Will's  queer  simile. 

"  Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Wynter,  cordially,  and 
striving  to  conceal  the  anxiety  he  felt. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  farmer,  rather  shortly. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  107 

"  I  was  coming  up  to  Ruby  wood,"  said  Wynter  Leigh 
"  to  inquire  after  Miss  Holt ;  I  trust  she  is  not  very 
unwell." 

Something  in  his  tone,  the  ring  of  almost  feverish 
eagerness  and  earnestness,  struck  the  farmer,  and  for  a 
moment  rendered  him  speechless. 

Was  this  young  fellow,  this  new-comer,  the  cause  of 
his  hitherto  dutiful  daughter's  disobedience  and  folly  ? 

He  looked  at  the  handsome,  earnest  face,  and  his  own 
grew  suspicious  and  dark. 

"  My  daughter's  well,  Mr.  Leigh,  and  I'm  obliged  to 
you,"  he  said,  eying  him  keenly.  "  Though  the  gossips 
seem  to  have  laid  her  on  a  sick  bed.  She's  well,  sir — 
but  I'm  not  sorry  to  see  you,  Mr.  Leigh ;  I've  wanted 
to  ask  you  a  question  or  two  for  some  days,  but  you're 
a  regular  Will-o'-the-wisp,  here  and  there,  and  over  the 
land  like  a  gnat." 

"  I  am  always  at  home  in  the  evening,"  said  Leigh, 
quietly,  adding,  for  naturally  he  wished  to  conciliate 
the  man  he  desired  for  a  father-in-law  :  "  And  I  would 
have  waited  on  you,  Mr.  Holt,  had  I  known  you  wished 
to  see  me." 

This  simple  piece  of  courtesy  heightened  the  farmer's 
suspicion. 

"Hem!"  he  said.  "Well,  I  was  going  to  ask  you 
about  the  cattle ;  you're  purchasing  pretty  heavy,  Mr. 
Leigh." 

"  Rather  I "  said  Leigh,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly. 


108  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Could  this  be  a  favorable  chance  to  show  the  farmer 
a  glimpse  of  his  hope  ? 

"  Rather !  "  repeated  the  farmer.  "  We  don't  call  a 
hundred  head  'rather'  down  south  here,  though  you 
may  think  nothing  of  it  up  north,  Mr.  Leigh.  What  I 
wanted  to  know  is  whether  you're  going  in  for  cattle 
heavier  still.  I  dare  say  you  may  think  it  an  imperti- 
nent question — young  men  are  more  uppish  now  than 
they  used  to  be  in  my  day — and  wonder  what  business 
it  is  of  mine." 

"  Lideed,  no,"  said  Mr.  Leigh,  "  I  am  only  honored 
by  your  interest  in  my  affairs,  Mr.  Holt." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  why  I  ask ;  you  see  that  avenue, 
Mr.  Leigh  ?  Unfortunately,  that's  common  property 
between  us  two,  but  I  take  a  pride  in  that  avenue,  sir, 
my  father  did  before  me,  and  his  father  before  him,  and 
I  should  like  to  know  if  you  think  of  driving  three  or 
four  hundred  head  of  cattle  up  and  down  that  avenue, 

because  if  so "  He  stopped,  very  red,  very  hot,  and, 

as  his  enemies  might  have  said,  looking  very  pig-headed. 

Wynter  Leigh's  color  rose  for  an  instant.  No  man 
had  ever  spoken  to  him  before  like  this  in  his  life. 

He  looked  hard  at  the  old  farmer,  then,  quietly,  slowly 
and  earnestly  said  : 

"  Farmer  Holt,  I  answer  your  question  as  candidly  as 
it  was  propounded.  I  do  not  intend  purchasing  any 
more  cattle,  simply  because  I  have  no  further  capital 
with  which  to  do  it ;  but,  if  I  had,  I  still  should  refrain 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  109 

from  doing  so  because  I  would  sacrifice  more  than  you 
can  imagine  to  gain  your  good-will  and  esteem.  As  to 
the  avenue,  if  any  other  road  can  be  made  by  which  the 
cattle  can  reach  pasturage,  it  shall  be  made,  and  in  re- 
turn for  so  small  a   matter   I   venture  to  ask  a  favor." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  the  farmer,  not  at  all  propiti- 
ated by  the  generous  offer. 

"  Only  this,"  said  Leigh,  "  that  if  there  be  any  other 
matter  which  may  give  you  pain  or  annoyance,  and 
which  I  can  relieve,  that  you  will  instantly  inform  me 
of  it.  I  am  a  bad  neighbor  so  far  as  sociability  goes, 
Mr.  Holt,  but  I  am  heartily  anxious  to  prove  myself  a 
good  one  by  seizing  any  opportunity  of  removing  any- 
thing on  the  farm  or  about  it  that  may  inconvenience 
you  or  give  you  trouble." 

The  farmer,  taking  all  this  as  confirmation  of  his 
suspicion,  grasped  his  stick  and  nodded  grimly. 

"  Oh,  I  thank  you,  but  I'm  not  a  man  to  take  advan- 
tage of  fine  words.  I  wish  you  good  morning,  Mr. 
Leigh,"  and,  with  a  touch  of  his  broad-brimmed  hat,  he 
trudged  off. 

Leigh,  with  a  pained  look  on  his  earnest  face,  turned 
and  strode  towards  the  Holme. 

Muriel,  his  beautiful,  true-hearted  Muriel,  was  not 
ill,  that  was  a  great  relief  to  him,  but  there  was  some- 
thing wrong,  nevertheless,  and  as  he  strode  on,  wonder- 
ing what  it  could  be,  he  heard  a  horse's  tramp,  looked 
up,  and  solved  the  problem  in  a  moment.     Before  him 


110  FARMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

was  Mr.  Heatherbridge's  gray  mare,  and  on  her  was  the 
young  squire  himself,  with  a  gloomy  brow  and  down- 
cast eyes. 

Leigh  gave  him  good  morning  quietly.  Mr.  Heath- 
erbridge  started  from  his  reverie,  saw  whence  the  salu- 
tation proceeded,  and  with  an  angry  flush  put  the  mare 
to  a  trot  and  rode  by  without  any  response. 

*'  So,"  he  said,  "  my  darling !  That  is  the  mystery, 
is  it  ?  My  friend  would  carry  you  off  by  force  of  arms, 
and  the  old  man  would  help  him  by  force  of  will.  Poor 
Muriel !  also  poor  Wynter,  too,  for  how  can  my  sweet 
darling  have  strength  enough  to  resist  her  father  and 
the  wealthy  squire  ?  " 

Then  he  entered  his  comfortless  house,  made  a  pre- 
tence of  eating  his  solitary  meal,  and,  striding  up  and 
down  the  worm-eaten  but  still  polished  floor,  thought 
over  his  love. 

Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,  if  true  love  has 
once  thrilled  it,  and  Wynter  Leigh's  heart  beat  with  the 
truest  love  man  ever  felt  for  the  beautiful  girl  who  had 
crept  into  its  aching  void,  and  filled  it  with  sweetness 
and  consolation. 

"  I  have  read  of  love,"  he  muttered,  "  and  have 
laughed  as  I  have  read.  Could  such  heart-burnings, 
such  longings,  such  intolerable  pain  at  separation  be 
natural  ?  Ah !  I  endure  them  all  now,  and  I  know  that 
love  such  as  I  feel  cannot  be  ever  painted  ;  it  is  inde- 
scribable.    My  darling,  gentle-hearted  Muriel,  I  would 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEB.  Ill 

die  to  make  you  happy,  ay,  die  the  worst  of  deaths  if  it 
could  purchase  you  an  hour's  joy !  But  I  will  do  bet- 
ter ;  I  will  live  to  make  you  happy.  Six  months,  I  said — 
it  seems  an  age,  an  intolerable  eternity  ;  and  I  cannot  see 
her,  meet  her  face  to  face,  and  speak  no  word  of  the  love 
that  trembles  on  my  lips,  and  flies  to  my  eyes.  I  must 
stand  by  and  see  her  baited  by  the  wealthy  lover  and 
harassed  by  the  father,  and  refrain  from  one  word  of 
comfort  ;  stand  with  my  arms  folded  while  I  burn  to 
clasp  her  within  them  to  my  heart,  and  snatch  her  from 
them  both  !  Six  months  !  It  will  be  harvest ;  the  land 
is  turning  out  better  than  I  expected.  I  will  keep  my 
promise  ;  the  Leighs  do  not  break  faith  though  their 
hearts  may  break  under  the  restraint.  With  the  corn  in, 
and  all  things,  please  heaven,  prospering,  I  will  go  and 
beg  for  lier,  ay,  beg  for  her  as  the  starving  man  begs  for 
his  life." 

The  resolve  made,  he  would  keep  it,  but  it  was  hard 
to  be  firm,  for  he  was  tired. 

In  the  first  place,  he  saw  nothing  of  Muriel — for  a 
very  good  reason.  Farmer  Holt,  having  taken  his  sud- 
denly formed  suspicion  to  his  heart,  had  tramped  off 
straight  from  Leigh  and  turned  the  key  in  Muriel's  door, 
so  that  she  was  a  prisoner,  and  could  see  no  more  of  her 
lover  than  a  distant  view  of  his  stalwart  figure  through 
the  latticed  window,  and  even  that  scarcely  for  her 
tears. 

Secondly,  Leigh  made  the  discovery  that  the  attitude 


112  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

of  those  about  him  had  changed  most  suddenly  and 
strangely. 

Squire  Heatherbridge  had  cut  him  on  the  road,  and 
now  his  own  men  showed  disinclination  to  work  for  him. 
Three  men  came  up  and  gave  him  notice  early  in  the 
morning  following  that  of  his  meeting  with  the  farmer. 

Before  noon  four  others  had  followed  suit. 

Leigh  was  astounded. 

"  What  have  you  to  complain  of,  my  men  ?  "  he  asked. 
•'Is  it  more  money  you  want?" 

"  No,  Master  Leigh,"  stammered  the  spokesman. 

"  Have  you  found  me  so  hard  a  master  that  my  service 
is  unendurable  ?  "  said  Leigb,  sternly. 

The  men  shook  their  heads  and  murmured  denial  in. 
concert. 

"  What  is  it,  then  ?  "  asked  the  master,  eyeing  them 
curiously  and  keenly. 

"  Well,  you  see,  sir,"  said  the  spokesman,  shifting 
about  uneasily  and  twisting  his  liat.  "  We  be  all  ten- 
ants of  the  young  squire's,  and  when  he's  got  a  lot  o' 
work  and  he  wants  hands,  why,  ye  see,  we  be  bound  to 
go,  wheresoever  we  do  happen  to  be,  and " 

"  Lots  of  work  !  "  repeated  Leigh.  "  What  work 
can  Mr.  Heatherbridge  have  now  ?  " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

Leigh  nodded  scornfully. 

*'  I  understand,  my  men,"  he  said  ;  "  you  may  go." 

And  he  did  understand  and  marvel. 


^  FAEMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEE.  113 

"  All  is  fair  in  love  and  war,"  he  muttered.  "  So 
Mr.  Heatherbridge  would  ruin  the  rival  whom  he  con- 
siders more  favored  than  himself.  Fair  !  it  is  un-Eng- 
lish and  foul !  " 

Foul  or  not,  it  harassed  and  distressed  him. 

He  had  a  heavy  stock  on  the  farm  and  plenty  of 
work,  but  Mr.  Heatherbridge  did  his  spiriting  so 
thoroughly  that  before  the  next  morning  there  remained 
to  his  rival  three  servants  only,  old  William,  a  man  he 
had  engaged  in  another  county  and  a  boy. 

Leigh  set  his  face  sternly  to  overcome  this  difficulty, 
and  started  off  in  his  dog-cart  to  Hopwood. 

There  he  engaged  six  men  at  good  wages,  and  brought 
three  of  them  over  with  him. 

When  they  had  all  arrived,  and  were  sitting  in  the 
common  kitchen  after  three  days'  work,  he  strode  in 
and  addressed  them  gravely,  but  kindly : 

"  My  men,"  he  saic?,  "  I  have  reason  to  believe  that 
before  to-morrow  night  you  will  be  tempted  by  a  neigh- 
bor to  leave  my  service.  He  may  offer  you  higher 
wages,  he  may,  and  very  probably  will  put  some  more 
powerful  agency  at  work  to  attain  his  object.  What  is 
your  intention  ?  Will  you  stand  by  me  and  act  like 
Englishmen,  or  will  you  give  in  and  desert  me  if  you 
are  tempted  ?  " 

"  We'll  stand  by  you,  Master  Leigh ! "  said  one  of 
them,  and  the  rest  echoed  the  assertion. 
j     Wynter  Leigh  nodded. 


114  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Good,"  he  said ;  "  you'll  not  find  me  a  hard  master, 
and  you'll  find  me  a  staunch  one.  Sam,  give  out  some 
cider." 

This  precaution  taken,  Leigh  went  through  the  busi- 
ness of  the  day  with  a  stouter  heart,  but  a  sad  one  still, 
for  he  could  get  no  tidings  of  Muriel. 

No  one  had  seen  her,  and  the  farmer  kept  so  close  a 
watch  about  the  farm  that  the  servants  could  glean 
nothing. 

At  night,  tramping  down  the  avenue  tired  of  foot 
and  heart,  the  3'oung  lover  pulled  up  short  at  the  ap- 
parition of  the  white  frock  and  the  pretty  face  of  Janey, 
Farmer  Holt's  servant. 

"  Is  that  you,  Janey,"  he  said. 

*'  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Janey,  coming  from  behind  the 
trees  and  looking  round  furtively.  "  Oh,  sir,"  and  she 
put  her  natty  apron  to  her  eyes. 

""Well,  be  quick,  my  girl,"  said  Leigh,  with  a  sharp- 
ness produced  by  his  love.  "  I'm  on  thorns,  you  can 
see.     You  come  from  your  mistress?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Janey  crying.  "  Poor  dear  Miss 
Muriel.  Isn't  it  a  shame,  sir,  that  the  prettiest  young 
lady  in  the  county  should  be  shut  up  like  a  prisoner  ia 
the  tower  o'  Lunnon,  all  for  a  tiresome  man?" 

"  A  prisoner ! "  said  Leigh,  with  quiet  indignation. 
*'  Is  she  really  a  prisoner,  my  lass  ?  "  and  his  lips  com- 
pressed tightly. 

"  That  she  be,  sir,"  said  Janey,  "  and  it's  enough  to 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  115 

melt  a  stone  to  see  the  sweet  dear  sitting  by  the  win- 
dow so  pale  and  quiet.  Oh,  Mr.  Leigh,  you  be  a  very 
fortunate  gentleman." 

Leigh  nodded  inquiringly. 

"  To  think  as  Miss  Muriel  should  refuse  so  many, 
and  fall  in  love  with  you.  She  do  love  you,  too,  sir, 
for  she  sits  at  the  window  and  watches  you,  and  I  can 
see  when  you  be  coming  or  go,  as  well  as  she  can, 
a'most,  by  her  sweet  face.  Oh,  Mr.  Leigh,  what's  to 
be  done  ?  " 

Leigh  sat  down  on  the  fence  and  looked  hard  at  the 
ground. 

If  he  followed  the  desire  of  his  heart  he  knew  what 
would  be  done,  and  that  without  the  loss  of  a  moment. 
He  would  have  given  ten  years  from  his  life  to  gratify 
that  desire,  and  that  desire  was  to  walk  off  straight  to 
the  farm,  liberate  the  woman  he  loved,  and  carry  her 
off  in  spite  of  twenty  fathers  or  rivals. 

But  he  had  given  his  word,  and  so  sat  silent  and 
torn   by   passionate   love    and  passionate   indignation. 

"  And  if  you  please,  sir.  Miss  Muriel  sent  me  to  go 
for  a  walk  ;  she's  so  thoughtful,  sir,  and  couldn't  let 
me  be  cooped  up  in  a  close  room  though  she  were 
obliged  to  be,  and  so  I  waits  till  it  was  dusk  and  creeps 
down  here,  hoping  to  see  you,  Mr.  Leigh  ;  and  if  you 
please,  sir,  I  do  think  as  master  intends  sending  Miss 
Muriel  far  away  into  Lunnon  or  somewhere,  for  I  see 
him  writing  a  letter,  and  George  " — here  Janey  blushed 


116  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

— "  George  did  say  as  it  were  addressed  to  Miss 
Muriel's  aunt,  as  is  a  great  lady  and  lives  in  Lunnon. 
And,  oh,  sir,  if  she  be  sent  away  'twill  break  her  heart, 
I  know." 

Leigh  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  harassed  and 
tortured  almost  beyond  endurance. 

"  Did — did  your  mistress  give  you  no  message  ?  '* 
he  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  thirsting  for  a  word  from  his 
darling. 

"  Well,  no,"  hesitated  Janey.  "  She  didn't  give  me 
any  message,  but  just  as  I  was  going  out  of  the  room 
she  plucked  this  forget-me-not  out  of  the  bunch  of 
flowers  on  the  table  and  gave  it  me  without  a  word,  sir." 

Leigh  almost  snatched  it  from  her  band  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips,  then,  in  a  hurried,  agitated  voice,  for  the 
little  flower  stirred  his  earnest  heart  to  its  very  depths, 
he  said : 

"  Janey,  tell  her  that  I  sleep  with  her  gift  upon  my 
heart,  and  that  until  that  heart  ceases  to  beat  I  can- 
not forget  her.  Tell  her —  There,  go,  my  girl,  go, 
go ! "  and,  unable  to  utter  a  word  more,  he  strode  off. 

"  Well,"  said  Janey,  "  if  this  ain't  love  I  don't  know 
what  love  is.  Law  I  to  think  of  Mr.  Leigh  loving  my 
dear  Miss  Muriel  like  that !  One  wouldn't  a'  thought 
it  of  him — so  quiet  and  grave  he  looks." 

Day  passed  after  day  and  Muriel  was  still  at  Ruby- 
wood,  though  the  severity  of  her  confinement  had  some- 
what relaxed,  and  she  was  allowed  to  go  as  far  as  the 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  117 

garden  and  the  court,  but  then  only  at  stated  times, 
when  her  father,  whom  she  had  not  seen  nor  spoken  to 
since  the  night  of  her  refusal  of  young  Heatherbridge, 
sat  in  the  parlor,  the  window  of  which  commanded  a 
view  of  the  whole  space,  and  kept  watch  and  guard 
over  her. 

He  would  have  sent  her  to  London,  but  the  aunt  to 
whom  he  had  written  was  a.wa,y  on  a  visit,  and  so  he 
had  to  be  contented  with  a  sharp  surveillance,  and, 
determined  that  he  would  break  her  spirit,  and  cure 
her  of  her  folly  and  obstinacy,  resolved  that  she  should 
be  kept  a  prisoner  until  she  acknowledged  her  crime  and 
consented  to  take  the  husband  he  had  chosen  for  her. 

Harvest  time  approached. 

Wynter  Leigh,  who  had  prospered  in  all  matters  save 
that  of  his  love,  grew  more  anxious,  more  stern  and 
more  passionately  in  love  with  the  absent  Muriel  than 
ever,  and  as  the  expiration  of  the  six  months'  term  of 
silence  and  patience  drew  near  was  almost  consumed 
with  fiery  resolves  and  impossible  projects. 

The  little  forget-me-not,  faded  and  dead,  slept  on  his 
heart  night  and  day. 

The  harvest  came. 

Men  were  scarce  ;  all  that  were  obtainable  Mr. 
Heatherbridge  and  Farmer  Holt  secured. 

Worn  to  death  with  overwork  and  anxiety,  Wynter 
Leigh  rode  over  to  Hopwood  and  determined  to  give 
the  new  steam  monster  a  trial. 


118  FAKMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEK. 

Farmer  Holt,  trudging  from  a  newly  reaped  field  to 
one  in  progress,  met  the  great  steam  monster  panting 
and  snorting  down  the  avenue,  which  Leigh,  having 
been  far  too  occupied  to  cut  a  new  road,  had  been  com- 
pelled to  retain  in  use. 

"What's  that?"  gasped  the  farmer,  staring  first  at 
the  immense  locomotive  and  then  at  the  deep  ruts 
which  its  broad,  heavy  wheels  cut  in  the  even  road. 

"  That  be  the  new  invention,  farmer,"  replied  old 
Will,  cheerily,  and  not  without  a  grim  satisfaction  at 
the  farmer's  dismay.  "  That  be  four-and-twenty  men 
rolled  into  iron  and  stuck  upon  wheels." 

"And — and  what's  your  master  going  to  do  with 
it  ?  "  asked  the  farmer,  his  anger  rising  rapidly  into  a 
fit  of  passion. 

"  Reap,"  retorted  old  Will.  "  There's  a  Providence 
always  waiting  to  open  a  new^  door  when  contrary  men 
shuts  all  the  old  un's.  Farmer  Holt." 

And  with  a  stern  nod  the  old  man  trudged  on  after 
the  new  hands. 

Farmer  Holt  strode  home  purple  with  anger. 

Muriel,  sitting  under  the  shade  of  an  old  oak  in  the 
courtyard,  saw  him  approaching,  and  expecting  him  to 
turn  off  up  the  side  walk  to  avoid  her,  drooped  her 
head  to  hide  the  tear-dimmed  eyes,  and  sighed. 

But  the  farmer,  eyeing  his  daughter  angrily,  strode 
straight  on,  and,  standing  before  her,  folded  his  arms, 
and  said  : 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  119 

"  Muriel  Holt,  have  you  repented  of  your  wickedness  ?  " 

**  Oh,  fathei-,  father,  dear  father,  you  will  break  my 
heart!"  sobbed  Muriel,  throwing  herself  upon  his 
breast. 

He  put  her  back  with  a  rough  hand. 

"  Answer  my  question,  girl.  Are  you  ready  to  do 
your  duty  and  obey  the  man  who  gave  you  life.  Will 
you  marry  Alfred  Heatlierbridge  ?  " 

"  Father,"  said  Muriel,  pale  but  resolute,  "  I  cannot 
— 1  dare  not." 

"  Cannot !  dare  not !  Why  not  ?  "  asked  the  father, 
his  eyes  flashing.  "  Don't  answer,  you  shameless  girl, 
I'll  answer  for  you.  You  love  another  man.  Do  you 
deny  it?" 

"  No  ! "  said  Muriel,  raising  her  face  with  a  light  in 
her  eyes  that  might  have  been  the  reflection  of  his, 
"  I  do  love  anotlier  man — a  brave,  true-hearted  man, 
who  would  scorn  to  do  what  the  man  you  would  have 
me  marry  has  meanly  done  to  him." 

Farmer  Holt  drew  his  breath,  and  his  arms,  which 
he  had  fixed  across  his  chest,  tightened. 

"  Your  true-hearted  man  is  Mister  Leigh,  my  girl, 
isn't  it?"  he  asked,  with  terrible  calmness. 

"  It  is  he,"  said  Muriel,  in  a  low  but  clear  voice. 

"  Then,  Muriel  Holt,  I  tell  you  I'd  rather  follow 
you  to  your  grave  than  give  you  to  that  man.  Mister 
Leigh  !  An  insolent,  hare-brained  fool !  No  daughter 
of  mine  shall  marry  him,  for  I'd  bury  her  first.     And 


120  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

that's  my  answer,  my  girl,  if  ever  you  dare  to  put  the 
question.  Marry  the  man  I've  chosen  for  you  or  remain 
single.  When  I  say  a  thing  I  mean  it,  and  by  Heaven 
I'll  stand  to  this  !  " 

Muriel  sank  upon  the  seat  white  as  death,  and  al- 
most as  breathless. 

The  farmer  glanced  at  her  with  a  pitiless  nod  and 
strode  away. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  121 


CHAPTER    X. 

Oh,  I  have  set  my  all  upon  a  die 
And  lost  the  cast  !    Tell  me  no  more 
Of  woman's  love. 

— Falconer. 

Muriel,  having  herself  made  the  declaration  of 
their  mutual  love,  which  she  had  made  her  lover  promise 
he  would  keep  secret,  lost  no  time  in  despatching 
Janey  with  a  message.  It  was  short  but  wondrously 
eloquent. 

"  Tell  him,  Janey,"  she  said,  with  a  sad  little  smile, 
"that  I  have  been  very  wicked  and  have  ruined  us 
both,  and  that  I  do  not  deserve  that  he  should  keep 
his  promise." 

Janey  started  with  the  message,  but  the  farmer  was 
one  too  many  for  them. 

He  caught  her  at  the  gate  and,  without  beating 
round  the  bush,  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"  You're  going  with  a  message  to  Mr.  Leigh,  my 
lass,"  he  said,  sternly.  "  I  don't  want  to  know  what  it 
is  and  I  don't  care,  but  if  you  pass  that  garden  gate 
you'll  never  come  through  it  again  while  I'm  master 
of  Rubywood.  Now  go  back  to  your  mistress  and  tell 
her  she  hasn't  a  fool  for  a  father." 


122  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Quite  unconscious  of  the  scene  that  had  taken  place 
between  the  father  and  his  daughter,  Wynter  Leigh, 
with  "  Muriel "  ringing  in  his  ears  and  Muriel's  face 
ever  before  his  wistful  eyes,  got  through  his  reaping, 
paid  the  engine  fee  and  started  on  his  night's  round  of  in- 
spection, which,  be  he  never  so  weary,  he  neverneglected. 

As  he  passed  the  window  which  he  knew  was 
Muriel's  he  raised  his  hand  to  his  lips  and  mur- 
mured a  blessing  on  his  love,  and  then,  fired  by  her 
nearness,  resolved  inwardly  that  by  hook  or  by  ci'ook 
he  would  see  her  on  the  morrow  and  be  released  from 
his  promise. 

He  was  a  man,  he  loved  most  passionately  and  his 
patient  endurance  was  getting  intolerable. 

Alas,  that  morrow  !  When  he  awoke  at  sunrise  and 
had  eaten  his  frugal  breakfast  he  strode  down  to  his 
outhouses  to  look  at  his  cows. 

His  man,  Anderson,  a  quiet,  almost  sullen-tempered 
fellow,  was  standing  looking  at  a  beast  that  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  stall  as  if  it  were  lame. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Anderson  ?  "  asked  Leigh. 

"  Nothin',"  replied  the  man.  "  She's  knocked  her 
leg  against  the  stall." 

Leigh  was  on  his  knees  in  a  moment. 

"  Turn  her  round,"  he  said,  in  his  short  way. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  the  cow,  in  a  weak,  shambling 
way,  turned  round. 

"  Knocked  her  leg  ?  "  repeated  Leigh,  doubtfully. 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  123 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man.     "  I  see'd  her  do  it." 

That  settled  it,  of  course,  and  Leigh,  telling  him  to 
bathe  it  with  cold  water,  strode  off. 

In  an  hour  or  two  he  returned,  and,  walking  by  tlie 
meadow  way,  was  surprised  and  startled  to  see  another 
cow  limping  weakly  across  the  grass. 

He  went  up  to  it  and  looked  at  it.  It  was  running 
at  the  mouth  and  seemed  lame.  He  called  the  man  wlio 
was  at  work  in  a  distant  part  of  the  field,  and  pointed 
out  the  marks  of  distress. 

"Ah,"  said  the  fellow,  "staggei-s." 

"  Not  it,"  said  Leigh,  curtly,  "  I  know  staggers  when 
I  see  them,  my  man.  This  is  not  staggers  nor  anything 
I've  seen  before.     Fetch  the  vet." 

"  He's  away  at  Hop  wood,"  said  the  man,  gruffly, 
"  and  we  don't  want  him.  I'll  take  her  home  and  doctor 
her." 

Leigh  hesitated,  but  the  man,  who  had  been  used  to 
cows  from  boyhood,  looked  and  spoke  so  confidently 
that  he  fell  back  and  allowed  him  to  drive  the  cow  home. 

A  step  beliind  him,  and  the  postboy  ran  up. 

Leigh  opened  the  letter,  which  proved  to  be  one  from 
his  uncle,  and  was  as  stern  in  form  and  manner  as  tlie 
uncle  himself. 

"  Dear  Wynter  :  A  call  of  business,  unexpected 
but  urgent,  may  necessitate  my  requesting  the  ret^rn 
of  the  three  thousand  pounds  which  I  lent  you.     I  trusi; 


124  FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

you  will  be  prepared  should  I  do  so,  and  I  write  this 
early  that  you  may  not  be  inconvenienced. 

"  I  am,  yours  faithfully, 

"  Arthur  Leigh." 

Wynter  Leigh's  face  fell  and  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"  A  borrower  is  a  slave,"  he  muttered.  "  What  am 
I  to  do  ?  He  will  have  the  money  if  he  need  it,  though 
it  were  carved  from  my  skin.  I  know  him.  Oh, 
Muriel,  Muriel,  fate  is  erecting  a  fresh  mountain  be- 
tween you  and  me  for  every  old  one  I  pull  down." 

Musing  thus  sadly,  he  came  across  tlie  farmer. 

He  raised  his  hat  with  his  earnest,  kindly  smile,  but 
the  old  man  stared  him  grimly  in  the  face  and  trudged 
on  without  the  slightest  sign  of  recognition. 

Leigh  smiled  almost  as  grimly  and  quickened  his 
pace. 

"  One  heart  is  as  good  as  another,"  he  murmured, 
"  and  yours  is  as  well  able  to  bear  a  shock  as  mine.  I'll 
wait  no  longer  or  both  my  darling's  and  mine  will  be 
broken." 

He  turned  the  corner  and  saw  old  William  running 
towards  him  as  fast  as  he  could,  with  fear,  distress  and 
agitation  as  plainly  portrayed  on  his  countenance  as 
the  figures  are  on  the  dial  of  St.  Paul's. 

*'  Oh,  Master  Leigh,  Master  Leigh,  the  plague  be 
upon  us  !     Heaven  is  a  visiting  us." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Leigh,  sternly. 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  125 

"  Come  to  the  yard,  Master  Leigh,  come  to  the  yard  !  " 
said  the  old  man  ;  and  as  Leigh  hurried  on  he  followed 
after. 

In  the  yard  all  was  confusion.  A  crowd  was  collected 
round  a  group  of  cows,  twenty  in  number,  who  were 
lying  as  if  stricken  for  death. 

Leigh  forced  his  way  through  the  outer  edge  and 
grasped  the  veterinary  surgeon's  arm. 

"  What  ails  them  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  low,  deep  voice. 

Mr.  Muddock  rose  from  his  knees  on  which  he  had 
been  examining  a  cow's  head,  and  scratched  his 
own. 

"  I'm  blest  if  I  know,  sir,"  he  replied,  his  face  full  of 
bewilderment  and  concern.  "  I  can't  make  out  none  o* 
the  symptoms.  It's  this  'ere  lameness  that  puzzles  me. 
I've  give  'em  draughts,  and  I've  bled  some  on  'em,  but 
it's  all  no  use.  Look  there  !  by  the  Heavens  above 
there's  one  dead!  "  and  he  sprang  to  one  beast  that  with 
piteous  bellowing  fell  over  as  dead  as  a  stone. 

Leigh  stood  and  glanced  round  stupefied  and  be- 
numbed. But  only  for  the  moment,  the  next  he  turned 
to  one  of  the  men  and  in  an  unnaturally  calm  voice  said: 

"  Saddle  the  mare  and  ride  to  Wodenhead.  Bring 
Mr.  Williams,  the  surgeon,  here  without  the  loss  of  a 
moment.     Don't  spare  the  horse." 

As  he  spoke  two  more  cows  were  brought  in,  and  the 
vet  turned  with  a  confused,  helpless  air  to  examine  them. 

In  half  an  hour  Mr.  Williams  galloped  into  the  yard. 


126  FAEMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEE. 

He  shook  hands  hurriedly  with  Wyuter,  and  was  on 
his  knees  beside  the  cow  last  seized. 

Leigh  watched  his  face  intently,  and  groaned  as  he 
turned  it  up  full  of  dark  meaning. 

"  Speak  out,  man,"  said  Leigh,  "  I'm  not  a  child." 

"Mr.  Leigh,"  said  the  surgeon,  "they're  down  with 
this  new  disease,  the  cattle  plague.  It's  highly  infec- 
tious, and — and — 'pon  my  soul  I'm  afraid  you'll  lose 
them.  Get  all  the  men  and  have  these  stricken  ones 
removed,  they  taint  the  very  air  they  breathe.  Look 
here  !  By  Heaven,  there  are  five  more  !  "  and  as  he 
spoke  he  pointed  to  a  small  crowd  driving  a  fresh  batch 
of  victims. 

Leigh  threw  off  his  coat  and  worked  like  a  slave. 
The  men,  cheered  and  encouraged  by  his  example, 
toiled  away  in  the  hot  sun  and  separated  the  stricken 
cattle  from  those  not  yet  attacked. 

Then,  when  the  yard  was  clear  save  the  piles  of  fag- 
ots which  the  surveyor  had  ordered  to  be  burned  as 
disinfectants,  Leigh  stood  with  folded  arms  to  contem- 
plate his  approaching  ruin. 

His  eyes  turned  towards  Rubywood,  his  heart  sank 
within  him,  and  with  a  groan  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

That  night  he  passed  amongst  the  dead  and  dying 
cattle,  listening  with  numbed  ears  to  the  gossip  of  his 
men,  which  ran  upon  the  hideous  disease  which  had 
just  been  introduced  into  England,  and  by  which  their 
master's  cows  had  been  destroyed. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  127 

In  the  morning,  as  if  to  put  the  finishing  stroke  to 
his  misfortune,  came  a  second  letter  from  the  north. 

Terribly  abrupt,  it  was  a  sentence  of  ruin  without 
compromise. 

"  Dear  Wynter  :  I  wrote  to  you  a  week  ago  inform- 
ing you  that  in  all  probability  I  should  require  the 
re-payment  of  tlie  three  thousand  pounds.  Having 
received  no  reply,  I  forward  this  to  remind  you  that  I 
hold  your  note  agieeing  to  pay  on  demand,  and  to  in- 
timate that  as  my  want  of  the  money  is  urgent,  my 
agent  will  call  upon  you  to-morrow  to  receive  payment 
or  take  the  necessary  steps  to  enforce  the  bond. 

"  I  am  youi"S, 

"  A  RTHUR  Leigh.'* 

With  the  note  in  his  hand,  Leigh  sank  into  a  chair, 
staring  straight  before  him  like  one  demented. 

A  week  ago  !  Yes,  on  referring  to  the  first  letter  he 
saw  that  his  precise  uncle  had  made  no  mistake,  the 
letter  bore  the  date  of  a  week  back,  and  had  evidently 
been  mislaid.  To-morrow  the  agent — one  who  could 
not  accept  any  compromise,  and  who  would  inevitably 
cany  out  his  instructions  to  the  letter,  and  would  en- 
force the  bond — would  be  on  the  scene. 

Where  could  he  look  for  help  ?  Nowhere — he  had 
no  friend.  Not  one  save  old  Will  sitting  in  the  sun- 
shine bowed  down  by  the  shock  of  his  young  master's 
misfortunes. 


128  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

No  friend  !  Ah,  yes,  one,  and  he  knew  in  his  heart 
that,  come  what  would,  she,  his  beautiful,  gentle-hearted 
Muriel,  would  be  true  to  him,  and  that  though  the 
years  of  separation  might  be  long  and  bitter,  she  was 
his  to  all  eternity. 

He  threw  the  letter  aside,  and,  drawing  paper  and 
ink  towards  him,  in  his  firm  hand,  which  no  amount  of 
distress  could  rob  of  its  steadiness,  wrote  as  his  heart 
dictated. 

"My  Darling:  I  may  call  you  mine  now,  for  if  I 
have  not  you  I  have  nothing,  Providence  having  seen 
fit  to  deprive  me  of  all  earthly  possessions.  Buoyed 
up  with  the  hope  your  sweet  lips  gave  me,  I  have  striven 
and  battled  with  fortune  for  the  greatest  prize  man  ever 
fought  for.  Man  fights,  but  Heaven  awards  the  victory 
where  it  wills.  I  have  lost  the  battle,  and  as  I  write 
to  you  now  am  a  ruined  man.  In  this,  which  must  be 
the  darkest  hour  of  my  life  but  for  you,  I  turn  like  a 
drowning  man  to  my  love,  my  star,  my  hope.  Muriel, 
will  you  still  pledge  me  your  love  ? — will  you  still  give 
your  heart  to  a  penniless,  homeless  wretch  ?  Wretch, 
indeed,  for  asking  you,  but,  oh,  my  darling,  I  love  you 
so  that  I  cannot — I  cannot  give  you  up  without  one 
prayer ! 

*'  I  implore  you  to  act  as  you  think  right,  but,  for 
Heaven's  sweet  sake,  have  mercy  on  me  !  Send  me  one 
word  to  say  that  I  may  still  hope — that  you  will  not 


FARMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  129 

take   your   love  from  me   because   Heaven   has  taken 

everything  else.     Be  merciful,   Muriel,  and  send   me 

word  to  lighten  the  darkness  which  has  fallen  upon  me. 

I  have  kept  my  promise  ;  now,  though  I  am  still  more 

unworthy  of  your  love  than  ever,  I  implore  you  to  keep 

the  promise  which  your  eyes  gave  mine.     And  yet — 

and  yet — I  know,  selfish  wretch  that  I  am  !  that  I  have 

no  right  to  ask  you  for  your  love  or  your  pledge — nay, 

that  it  is  cowardly,  unmanly,  to  do  so.     Send  me  no 

word,  Muriel,  but  let  the  messenger  go  without  a  sign 

from  you  that  I  may  know  you  will  be  happy  with  some 

better  man,  and  forget  that  one  Wj'^nter  Leigh  ever 

loved  you  or  crossed  your  path.     Farewell,  dear  Muriel, 

no  longer  mine ;  Heaven's  blessing  rest  upon  you  night 

and  day. 

"  Wynter  Leigh." 

He  dared  not  read  the  cold  words  after  he  had  writ- 
ten them,  but,  with  his  lips  tightly  set,  walked  down 
to  Old  Goody's  and  called  Jaffer  from  the  cottage. 

"  Jaffer,"  he  said,  "  you  can  climb  the  court  wall  at 
Ruby  wood  ?  " 

'*  Ees,"  said  Jaffer,  laughing  with  ecstatic  glee. 

"  You  are  a  clever  fellow,  Jaffer,"  said  Leigh,  with  a 
sad  smile.  *'  Can  you  take  this  note  to  Miss  Muriel 
where  she  sits  in  the  court  without  any  one  seeing  you 
give  it  to  her  ?  " 

"I  think  I  can,  Measter  Leigh,"  said  Jaffer,  with 
another  guffaw. 


130  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Leigh  gave  him  the  note  and  a  shilling. 

"  I  can  trust  you,  Jaffer,"  he  said,  "  because  you  are 
quicker  than  people  think,  and  you  love  Miss  Muriel, 
don't  you?" 

"  That  I  do,"  said  Jaffer,  "  and  so  do  you,  don't  you, 
Measter  Leigh?" 

And  Jaffer  roared  with  enjoyment. 

*'  Aye,"  said  Leigh,  solemnly.  "  There,  do  run  off. 
Remember,  you  are  to  take  the  note  without  any  one 
seeing  you,  and  you  are  to  run  back  to  me  and  tell  me 
if  Miss  Muriel  says  anything  to  you — word  for  word, 
Jaffer — and  then  there  will  be  anotlier  shilling  for  you." 

Jaffer  laughed  more  heartily  than  before,  seized  the 
note,  secured  it  in  some  complicated  corner  of  his  fustian 
coat,  and,  looking  slyly  up  the  lane  to  see  if  the  coast 
was  clear,  darted  off. 

Leigh  looked  after  him  with  a  fast-beating  heart. 

"  Have  I  said  farewell  to  all  the  world  holds  dear  to 
me?  If  so,  I  have  said  farewell  to  hope.  I  love  her 
with  all  my  heart — all  my  life — and  if  I  have  lost  her 
life  is  over  for  me.  What  will  she  say  ?  Will  she  send 
the  answer  I  was  craven  enough  to  implore  of  her  ? 
Oh,  shame  on  me !  I  ought  to  have  crept  out  of  the 
world  rather  than  ask  her  for  her  love — a  penniless  ad- 
venturer— homeless,  friendless !  Ah,  but  I  love  her  so 
— I  love  her  so !  And  that  is  where  love  makes  u.-j 
weak.  Will  she  send  the  word  ?  Will  she  send  me  a 
note?" 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  131 

Asking  himself  this  one  question,  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  lane,  each  moment  growing  more  excited  and 
feverish. 

The  boy  seemed  to  have  been  gone  hours  already, 
though  Leigh  knew  that  he  could  not  yet  have  reached 
Rubywood. 

Ages  seemed  to  pass,  and  then  he  saw  Jaffer's  long, 
awkward  figure  swinging  across  the  fields  on  a  jog  trot. 

The  strong  man's  heart  beat  so  fast  that  it  almost 
stopped  his  breath. 

Jaffer  came  on,  and  halted  before  him  breathless,  but 
chuckling  with  satisfaction. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Leigh,  almost  devouring  him  with  his 
flashing  eyes. 

"  Hah  !  hah !  "  laughed  Jaffer,  looking  round  stealth- 
ily. "  I  see  her !  I  see  her  !  I  climbed  over  the  wall 
like  a  fox  !  Hah  !  hah !  Nobody  sees  Jaffer,  'cos  he's 
so  thin  !  I  give  her  the  note,  and,  lawk,  she  .go  as 
white  as  Master  Leigh  himself  !  And  she  read  it,  too !  " 
he  chuckled. 

"  And,"  said  Leigh,  painfully,  "  what  did  she  say, 
Jaffer?" 

"  Nothing  I "  replied  the  boy,  opening  his  eyes. 

Leigh  grasped  his  stick  as  if  his  hands  had  changed 
from  flesh  to  iron,  his  teeth  closed  on  his  under  lip  and 
pierced  it  till  the  blood  ran  down. 

"Nothing?"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "Think,  Jaffer  I 
Not  a  word  ?  " 


132  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  Jaffer,  laughing,  but  rather  dis- 
mally. "  I  asked  her  if  so  be  as  there  wasn't  any  mes- 
sage, and  she  shook  her  head  like  this  and  never  said  a 
word." 

Wynter  Leigh  turned  his  face  up  to  the  sky  and 
stood  in  the  blazing  sun  like  a  man  turned  to  stone, 
then  with  a  slow  movement,  as  of  one  being  dead 
brought  back,  with  pain,  to  life,  walked  slowly  away, 
leaving  Jaffer  looking  after  and  laughing  heartily. 

Next  day  at  noon  Mr.  Heatherbridge  knocked  at  the 
door  of  Farmer  Holt's  small  office,  and  without  waiting 
for  permission  to  enter  burst  in. 

"  Alfred,"  exclaimed  Farmer  Holt,  "  what's  hap- 
pened ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  heard  ? "  said  Mr.  Heatherbridge, 
eagerly. 

"  What  should  I  ask  for,  then  ? "  asked  the  farmer, 
-who  detested  suspense  of  any  kind. 

"  Indeed  no,"  assented  the  young  man,  with  a  little 
less  exultation.  "  Wynter  Leigh  has  disappeared. 
Left  the  place  like  a — a — thief.  And  they  say  that  the 
cattle  are  down  with  the  new  disease,  and  that  tha 
bailiffs  are  in  at  the  Holme." 


PARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  133 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Oh,  Jealousy,  thou  green-eyed  monster, 
How  many  maids  have  thy  voracious  jaws 
Consumed. 

Having  solemnly  pronounced  his  opinion  that  Mr. 
Wynter  Leigh's  troubles  had  been  vouchsafed  him  in  the 
shape  of  a  special  judgment,  Farmer  Holt  asked  himself 
the  question  whether  it  would  be  better  to  impart  the 
news  of  the  young  man's  disappearance  to  obstinate 
Muriel  or  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  it  until  Mr.  Leigh 
had  time  to  get  quite  out  of  the  countr\% 

Alfred  Heatherbridge  thought  for  a  moment — he  was 
very  anxious  and  embarrassed,  and  could  not  look  the 
farmer  in  the  face,  then  said  : 

"  Tell  her  at  once,  sir.  Muriel's  too  sensible  a  girl 
to  give  another  thought  to  a  worthless  vagabond  like 
that,  especially  when  she  knows  that  he  has  fled  the 
place  without  giving  her  a  word." 

"Oh,"  said  the  farmer,  scratching  his  chin,  "you 
think  with  me,  I  see,  that  the  young  ne'er-do-well  was 
sweet  with  her.  But  how  do  you  know  that  he  hasn't 
sent  a  sly  word,  eh,  Alfred  ?  " 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  absolutely  turned  pale. 

"  I — I  of  course  I  can't  say  for  certain,  sir,"  he  said. 


134  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  But  if  you've  kept  a  proper  watch  and  care  over  Miss 
Muriel,  I  can't  see  how  he  could  get  to  her." 

"  True,"  said  the  farmer,  rising  with  a  sigh.  "  Ah  I 
if  I'd  a  thought  my  lass  would  have  given  me  all  this 
ado,  I  think  I  should  a  wished  her  a  boy." 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  muttered  a  thanksgiving  that  she 
was  not,  and  in  an  awkward,  embarrassed  sort  of  way 
took  his  leave. 

The  farmer  tramped  up-stairs  and  knocked  at  Muriel's 
door. 

Janey  opened  it  a  quarter  of  an  inch,  glared  through 
the  space  with  one  eye,  and,  seeing  the  farmer's  grave 
face,  shut  it  to  again  with  great  rapidity. 

"  Darn  the  girl !  open  the  door  !  "  growled  the  farmer, 
and  Muriel's  soft  voice  echoing  the  three  last  words 
Janey,  who  was  fully  prepared  to  defend  the  door  with 
her  foolish  young  life,  opened  it  and  rather  reluctantly 
admitted  the  farmer. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  walking  up  to  Muriel,  who  rose 
from  her  seat  by  the  window  and  stood  pale  and  tremu- 
lous, but  inwardly  as  firm  and  determined. 

"  You've  brought  your  pigs  to  a  fine  market,  young 
lady.  This  comes  of  setting  your  own  father — a  fond 
old  fool — at  defiance  I  It  serves  you  riglit,  but  I  don't 
say  that  I'm  not  sorry,  my  lass,  for  it  stands  to  reason 
that  girls  running  shorter  o'  brains  than  men  and  being 
taken  with  queerer  fancies,  takes  it  to  heart  when 
things  run  crossways  for  *em." 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  135 

Muriel  looked  up,  paler  than  ever. 

'*  What  has  happened,  father?"  she  asked,  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  farmer  looked  her  full  in  the  eyes. 

"  Young  Leigh's  gone  all  wrong  and  fled  the  place." 

Muriel  sank  into  the  chair,  and  for  the  moment  the 
father,  who  loved  her  better  than  he  loved  anything  else 
in  the  world,  excepting  hard  cash  and  good  land,  feared 
that  he  had  given  her  her  death  blow,  but  ere  he  could 
touch  her  she  put  up  her  hand  to  keep  him  off  and  said' 
firmly : 

'*  I  don't  understand,  but  I  know  that  he  has  done 
nothing  wrong." 

*'  Lass,  you're  a  fool,"  he  said.  "  Never  did  I  think 
that  a  Holt  would  a  been  such  poor  blood  as  to  fling 
stones  after  such  a  weak-witted  ne'er-do-well  as  that  as 
has  given  thee  the  slip.  Done  wrong !  It's  wrong 
enough,  I  think,  to  borrow  money  ye  can't  pay  and  then 
cut  from  the  bailiffs." 

"  Gone  !  "  breathed  Muriel. 

"  Gone — ay — and  showed  a  remarkable  clean  pair  o* 
heels,  too.  He  came  like  a  will-o'-the-wisp  and  he's 
vanished  like  one.  Be  open  with  me,  lass,  for  I  know 
thee  was't  led  away  to  disobey  your  fond  father  by  the 
scamp.     Did  he  leave  thee  e'er  a  word  now  ?  " 

Muriel  shook  her  head. 

The  father  slapped  his  leg  triumphantly. 

"  By  Heaven,  I  thought  not !  "  he  said,  "  it's  sure  and 


136  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

certain  that  he  was  after  thee  for  my  poor  bit  o'  mon^y. 
A  regular  speculation,  lass,  as  they  calls  it  in  Lunnon, 
depend  upon  it.  But  there,  don't  you  fret  any  more, 
come  down-stairs  and  whistle  the  bird  down  the  wind. 
There's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  came  out,  and, 
indeed,  far  better  ones  than  him  that's  given  thee  the 
go-by,  waiting  for  thy  simple  "yes."  Wynter  Leigh 
was  a  villain  as  well  as  a  fool !  " 

With  these  words  he  had  passed  the  boundary  line  of 
her  endurance. 

She  rose,  beautiful  and  brave  as  a  leopardess,  her 
"usually  mild  eyes  flashing  fire  on  him,  and  her  small 
hands  clenched  at  her  sides. 

*'  Wynter  Leigh  is  an  honest  and  true  man,  if  there  is 
one  in  the  world,  and  until  it  is  proven  to  me  that  he  is 
other  than  that  I  will  never  cease  to  love  him  !  " 

Then  she  sank  into  the  chair,  and,  with  a  moan, 
dropped  her  face  into  her  hands. 

The  farmer  stared  grimly  at  her  for  a  full  minute, 
then  in  silence  left  the  room. 

Two  days  later  Squire  Heatherbridge  was  filled  with 
concern  for  poor  Jaffer's  ignorance,  and  declared  that 
he  would  send  him  to  school. 

It  was  shocking  to  see  the  grandson  of  such  a  well- 
conducted  old  lady  as  Goody  running  about  as  ignorant 
and  silly  as  a  savage.  And  consequently,  much  to  the 
edification  of  the  villagers,  who  one  and  all  sang  praises 
to  the  benevolence  and  kind-heartedness  of  the  young 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  137 

squire,  poor,  simple-minded  Jaffer  was  conveyed  to  a 
school  two  counties  off. 

No  sooner  had  Jaffer  gone  than  ugly  rumors,  at  first 
dim  and  undefined,  but  gradually  growing  into  some- 
thing definite,  arose  concerning  the  suddenly  vanished 
Mr.  Leigh. 

Somebody  had  seen  or  heard  something,  and  at  last  it 
was  getting  generally  believed  that  the  poor  young 
farmer  had  really  been  compelled  to  fly  the  Holme,  not 
so  much  on  account  of  his  pecuniary  troubles  as  on  that 
of  some  lady-love.  These  rumors  of  course  reached 
Rubywood  and  found  their  way  to  the  quiet  little  room 
to  which  Muriel  was  still  confined,  but  nothing  occurred 
to  confirm  or  justify  them  until  some  months  later,  when 
the  farmer,  who  had  persuaded  Muriel  to  accompany 
him  to  the  next  market  town,  saw  her  comfortably 
seated  in  the  village  phaeton,  and  for  the  first  time  for 
many  months  addressed  her  kindly. 

They  were  talking  of  the  coming  season — Muriel 
listening  rather,  for  she  spoke  but  rarely  and  always 
in  the  low,  cheerless  voice  which  seemed  habitual  to 
her  now,  and  the  farmer  said,  suddenly : 

"  I've  bought  the  Holme,  lass." 

Muriel  started  and  turned  her  head  aside. 

The  farmer  whipped  the  mare  and  plunged  into  the 
subject. 

"  I  thought  I'd  tell  you,  in  case  some  one  else  did  ifc 
blundering  like.     Don't  you  think  I'm  going  to  rake 


138  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

up  the  old  trouble  again,  because  I'm  not.  I've  taken 
you  at  your  word,  and  I'm  ready  to  believe  that  you 
won't  look  at  another  man  till  this  young  vaga — 
Wynter  Leigh  is  proved  what  all  the  world  says  he  is." 

Muriel's  eyes  filled. 

"  What  do  they  say  he  is  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  he  was  as  false  in  love  as  he  was  in  farming 
— wrong  at  bottom,  lass  ;  and  a  gay  deceiver.  They 
do  say  that  there's  a  lady  pining  her  heart  away  for 
him  up  in  the  North  where  he  came  from.  1  cannot 
say  if  it's  true,  for  you  may  be  sure  that  I  haven't 
stopped  to  make  inquiries.  All  that  I  do  mean  to  say 
is  that  it  goes  against  my  natural  pride  to  hear  my  own 
lass  mated  to  some  other  miles  away  and  sharing  pity 
with  her." 

'*  It  is  false,"  said  Muriel. 

"  Very  like,"  said  the  farmer,  grimly  ;  "  I  only  tell 
thee  what  I've  heard." 

He  seened  as  disinclined  to  touch  the  subject  as 
Muriel  herself,  and,  after  bestowing  another  fillip  upon 
the  mare,  set  to  whistling. 

They  had  passed  the  Holme  and  were  on  the  Hop- 
wood  road  some  distance  when  the  farmer  drew  aside 
to  allow  a  post-chaise  to  pass. 

Instead  of  passing,  however,  the  postilion  pulled  up 
in  obedience  to  a  signal  from  the  inside,  the  window 
rattled  down,  and  a  lady,  young  and  good-looking, 
with  a  pleasant  smile  accosted  the  astonished  farmer. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  139 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  my  man,"  she  said,  in  a  slightly 
foreign  accent,  *'if  we  are  in  the  right  direction  for  the 
Holme  ?  " 

For  a  moment  the  farmer  was  too  astounded  to  an- 
swer, the  lady,  evidently  amused  at  his  bewilderment, 
transferring  her  attention  to  the  pale,  beautiful  face 
of  Muriel. 

"  The  Holme,"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  are  going  right  for  the  Holme." 

"  Mr.  Wynter  Leigh's  ?  "  asked  the  lady,  as  if  to 
make  assurance  doubly  certain. 

"  No,  Farmer  Holt's,"  replied  the  old  man,  grimly. 

The  lady  looked  surprised. 

"  Are  there  two  places  called  the  Holme  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  in  this  part  of  the  countrj--,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  And  Mr.  Leigh  does  not  live  at  this  one  ? "  said 
the  lady,  looking  displeased. 

"  No  lie  doesn't,"  replied  the  farmer.  "  He  did,  but 
he  has  gone." 

"  Gone  !  "  echoed  the  lady,  faintly,  and  the  farmer, 
noting  her  tone  of  dismay,  looked  at  Muriel  significantly. 

"  Yes,  gone,"  he  repeated,  "  left  suddenly." 

"  And  for  where  ? "  asked  the  lady,  who  appeared 
very  much  startled. 

"  Ah !  "  said  Farmer  Holt  drawing  a  long  breath, 
"  that's  just  what  no  one  knows.  He  left — fled  as  one 
may  say — from  the  country  like  ^  thief  in  the  night, 
and  not  a  soul  knows  where  he  has  gone." 


140  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  This  is  most  strange  !  "  exclaimed  the  lady,  sink- 
ing back  in  the  carriage  and  looking  very  much  an- 
noyed and  undecided.  "  I — I — had  most  important 
business  with  Mr.  Leigh " 

"No  doubt,"  remarked  the  farmer  sardonically. 

*'  And — and  I  really  don't  know  what  to  do.  But 
I  must  find  him.  Are  you  sure  you  can  give  me  no 
information  ?  Has  he  left  no  servant  of  any  kind  who 
would  be  likely  to  know  his  movements  ?  " 

"  The  only  man  who  knew  anything  of  him  or  his 
affairs  left  the  place  the  moment  he  heard  of  his  mas- 
ter's flight,  followed  him  I  suppose,"  said  the  farmer. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  said  the  lady,  with  an 
anxious  sigh.  "Well,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you. 
Will  you  tell  my  man  to  drive  on,  please  ?  Stop  ! 
whom  is  this  Mr.  Holt  whom  you  say  has  bought  or 
holds  this  farm  ?  " 

"  He's  your  dutiful  servant,  madam,"  said  the  old 
man,  lifting  his  hat  with  a  grim  bow  and  setting  the 
mare  going  as  the  postilion  started  the  chaise. 

For  a  mile  not  a  word  was  spoken  by  father  or 
daughter,  Muriel  looking  straight  before  with  the  same 
pale  face  and  sad,  calm  eyes,  the  old  man  breaking  into 
spasmodic  whistling  occasionally  and  flippings  of  the 
mare. 

At  last  he  said,  quietly  : 

"  It's  true,  lass,  you  see.  That  fine  lady  was  the 
one  we've  heard  of,  no  doubt  of  it.     She'll  follow  him. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  141 

for  she  looks  like  it,  but  my  modest  lass  will  act  sensi- 
bly and  bid  good-by  to  all  thoughts  of  him  forever," 
and  Muriel's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  she  said  nothing. 
But  Farmer  Holt  had  conquered. 

That  same  evening  the  young  squire  came  hurriedly 
into  the  parlor,  and  to  his  surprise  and  embarrassment 
found  Muriel  there. 

It  Avas  the  first  time  they  had  met  since  the  evening 
of  his  avowal,  and  for  a  moment  he  turned  as  pale  as 
she  herself,  but  the  next  he  took  the  hand  she  held 
out  for  him,  and  bent  over  it,  murmuring  indistinct 
thankfulness  for  her  recovery  from  the  illness  which 
was  the  accepted  reason  for  her  confinement  to  her 
apartments. 

While  they  stood  silent  the  farmer  came  in,  rubbing 
his  hands,  and  winked  with  a  world  of  joyous  cunning 
at  the  young  squire. 

"  Well,  lads  and  lasses,"  he  cried,  cheerfully,  "  here 
we  are  again,  all  snug  and  comfortable  after  a  spell  of 
nasty  weather.  Sit  ye  down,  lad,  and  take  a  bit  of 
supper  with  us.  Muriel  can  find  ye  a  spare  knife  and 
fork,  I'll  be  bound." 

And  while  Muriel  went  to  apprize  Janey  of  the  ad- 
dition to  the  party  the  old  man  leaned  over  to  the  squire, 
and,  winking  like  the  automaton  at  the  Antwerp 
Museum,  whispered: 

"  It's  all  right,  lad  !  She'll  be  a  dutiful  girl,  and 
have  thee.     Hah  !  hah !  she'll  make  a  better  wife  for 


143  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

this  little  tantrum  ;  shows  she's  got  spirit,  and  can  keep 
her  word  like  a  Holt." 

By  the  next  morning  it  was  known  far  and  wide  that 
Miss  Muriel  had  recovered  from  her  illness  and  that  she 
would  become  mistress  of  the  Howe. 


FAEMEE  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  143 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Oh,  love,  that  finds  its  sweet  reward 
In  sacrifice  heroic,  may  hope  to  win 
The  meed  it  longs  for. 

The  young  squire,  having  no  doubt  ever  before  his 
mind  the  familiar  adage,  "  There's  many  a  slip  'tvvixt  the 
cup  and  the  lips,"  hastened  the  preparations  to  the  ut- 
most. 

He  ought  to  have  been  a  happy  man,  his  friends  said, 
for  he  had  a  great  windfall  of  wealth,  and  had  secured 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  county  ;  but  his  own  people 
about  the  farm  half  suspected  that  he  was  not  in  such  a 
high  state  of  felicity  as  he  should  have  been,  and  more 
than  one  hinted  that  the  squire  was  an  altered  man. 

He  had  grown  in  the  short  space  of  six  mouths  from  a 
good-tempered  master  to  an  irritable,  suspicious,  yet 
feeble-minded  tyrant,  always  laboring  under  the  painful 
idea  that  those  about  him  were  watching  him  or  striving 
to  over-reach  him. 

Servant  after  servant  had  found  his  manner  unbearable 
and  left  him.  The  farmer  himself  noticed  and  was  sur- 
prised at  the  alteration,  but  he  attributed  the  young 
man's  change  to  an  anxiety  born  of  feverish  impatience 
for  the  marriage,  and  backed  up  all  his  entreaties  for  a 


144  FAEMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

(speedy  celebration  by  nods  of  acquiescence  from  him- 
self. 

Muriel,  to  whom  these  entreaties  and  half  commands 
were  addressed,  received  and  responded  to  them  with 
the  same  cheerless,  indifferent  placidity  which  had 
marked  her  conduct  in  the  whole  business. 

She  had,  in  a  few  emphatic  but  gentle  words,  given 
the  young  squire  to  understand  that  if  he  took  her  he 
must  be  satisfied  with  her  esteem  and  respect  alone,  and 
having  ascertained  that,  for  the  present,  these  feehnga 
were  all  he  hoped  for,  she  seemed  indifferent  to  the  course 
of  events. 

Wynter  Leigh,  the  man  she  had  trusted  and  loved  aa 
only  such  a  pure,  deep  feeling  girl  could  trust  and  love, 
had  deceived  and  deserted  her.  All  the  rest  was  chaos, 
and  it  mattered  little  whether  she  was  sold  to  Mr. 
Heatherbridge  or  any  one  else. 

She  knew  that  she  was  being  sold,  notwithstanding 
her  father's  affection  for  her,  for  she  had  heard  enough 
fragments  of  conversations  to  gather  that  the  awkward 
comer  of  the  estate  was  the  price  at  which  she  was 
sacrificed. 

The  days  wore  on. 

She  went  among  the  poor  again — not  like  the  merry, 
light-hearted  Muriel  of  old,  but  more  like  a  sister  of 
mercy — and  cheered  and  sympathized  with  them. 

She  would  sit  for  half  an  hour  and  listen  to  old  GJoody, 
Jtrho,  with  the  dimness  of  decaying  perception,  would  in- 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  145 

Bist  upon  prating  of  good  Mr.  Leigh  and  his  old  shep- 
herd, and  sometimes  of  poor  Jaffer,  who  spent  all  his 
holidays  at  the  school,  and  had  never  been  to  see  his 
good  old  grandmother. 

The  days  wore  on  with  that  grim  steadiness  of  prog- 
ress which,  when  a  great  sorrow  is  looming,  is  far  more 
terrible  than  desperate  and  excited  speed,  and  the  day 
before  the  wedding  arrived. 

It  was  early  in  May.  The  weather  had  been  particu- 
larly fine  for  some  weeks  past,  and  something  like  a 
drought  had  prevailed. 

The  farmer  was  crying  out  for  rain,  and  trudging  over 
the  fields  and  the  roads  through  dust  and  parched  soil. 

The  Holme  was  in  the  hands  of  workmen,  who  were 
transforming  it  into  a  sort  of  home  farm,  and  the  farmer 
was  enjoying  the  two  delights  of  his  life — his  sole  right 
of  way  in  the  avenue  and  his  daughter's  marriage  to  the 
richest  man  in  Berks. 

The  laborers  had  knocked  off  work  for  the  day  and 
were  trudging  home  in  knots,  talking  of  the  festivities 
of  the  morrow,  and  glancing  between  pauses  of  the  con- 
versation at  the  cloudless  sky,  as  farmers  and  farm 
laborers  are  apt  to  do  when  they  want  the  weather  they 
have  not. 

At  the  Howe  the  painters,  decorators  and  upholsterers 
were  hard  at  work,  commencing  the  extensive  alterations, 
which  were  to  be  finished  by  the  return  of  the  bride  and 
bridegroom. 


U6  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

At  Rubywood  a  host  of  ruddy-clieeked,  strong-armed 
women  were  giving  the  final  touches  to  the  eatables 
which  were  to  deck  the  wedding  breakfast-table,  and 
chattering  like  a  cage  full  of  Java  sparrows  of  bygone 
marriages,  and  marriages  that  were  looming  in  the 
future. 

"  And  where's  Miss  Mur'l  now  ?  "  asked  one  matron. 

"  Oh,  in  her  room,  pretty  birdie,"  replied  another. 
"  She's  as  modest  and  sweet  as  a  throstle,  and  do  keep 
herself  to  herself,  as  is  only  proper  and  becoming  of  a 
young  girl." 

"  In  her  room,"  said  another.  "  Poor  Miss  Mur'l,  I 
don't  think  she  has  been  so  well  lately,  she  do  look  so 
purely  white  and  so  sad  like.  She  be  just  like  Dame 
Freeman's  Lucy  before  she  took  the  consumption.  But, 
there,  a  wedding's  a  trying  thing  to  such  a  sweet  girl  as 
she  be,  and  "  (with  a  long  sigh)  "  indeed  to  any  woman 
as  has  been  properly  brought  up.  It's  for  better  or  for 
worse,  you  see,  and  it's  quite  a  straw  i'  the  wind  whether 
it's  one  or  t'  other." 

Here  the  matronly  moralizer  fell  to  at  an  apricot  tart 
and  shook  her  head  solemnly. 

The  farmer,  who  would  not  have  broken  his  daily- 
routine  if  fifty  weddings  were  hovering  round  him,  came 
tramping  in  at  six  o'clock,  and,  having  given  an  approv- 
ing glance  at  the  extensive  preparations,  dismissed  the 
many  cooks  with  a  good-tempered  nod  and  sat  down  to 
his  tea. 


EAKMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTEE.  147 

Muriel  entered  the  room  as  he  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table,  and  the  old  man,  looking  up  with  a  fond  smile, 
was  struck  into  silence  by  the  fearful  pallor  of  her  face* 

With  a  woeful  little  smile  she  seated  herself  at  the 
table  and  gave  him  his  tea. 

"  Why,  lass,  how  skeared  you  look ! "  he  said. 
*'Bean'tyou  well  to-night?" 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Muriel,  "  a  little  headache,  that 
is  all.     We  have  been  very  busy  to-day,  you  know." 

He  nodded. 

"  The  last  day's  work  you'll  do,  lass,  I'll  be  sworn  ; 
to-morrow  you'll  have  as  many  servants  as  any  lady  of 
the  land." 

Muriel   smiled. 

"  Don't  you  get  excited,"  he  continued,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  looking  at  her.  "  Keep  quiet,  lass,  and  show 
Alfred  a  bright  face,  for  he's  a  good  lad,  and  deserves 
thee,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  Why,  it's  me  that 
ought  to  hang  the  miller's  sign  out,  for  I  lose  the  best 
daughter  ever  a  father  had." 

Muriel's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Not  lose  me,  father,"  she  said.  "  We  shall  be  very 
near  each  other." 

Alas  !  it  was  the  only  comfort  she  had. 

"  True  !  true  !  "  said  the  old  man,  chuckling.  '*  The 
palace — Hah!  hah!  it's  my  whim,  my  love,  to  call  it  the 
palace  now  tlie  chaps  from  London  have  been  at  it, 
sticking  gold  and  silver  and  silks  and  satins  about  as  if 


148  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

they  were  just  nowt  at  all ! — the  palace  isn't  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  old  place  where  you  were  born,  and  your 
old  father  can  look  out  of  his  window  and  see  his  daugh- 
ter in  all  her  glory." 

He  laughed  long  and  loud,  then  suddenly  broke  off 
and  bade  her  leave  him. 

"  You'll  want  a  rest,  lass,  and  a  little  quiet,  and  I've 
got  a  little  reckoning  to  do." 

Muriel  kissed  him,  and,  as  silently  as  she  had  entered, 
stole  to  her  room  again. 

The  old  man  waited  until  she  had  gone,  and  then 
tramped  up-stairs,  returning  in  a  few  minutes  with  a  tin 
box  and  a  canvas  bag.  These  he  put  on  the  table,  and, 
after  locking  the  door,  emptied  from  them  a  heap  of 
bank-notes  and  gold.  With  one  eye  closed  and  his  brow 
wrinkled  like  a  piece  of  parchment,  he  set  to  work 
counting  out  his  money. 

It  was  Muriel's  ten  thousand  pounds  dowry. 

While  the  farmer  was,  with  infinite  labor,  adding  up 
notes  and  piles  of  sovereigns  a  young  man  sat  in  the 
sanded  parlor  of  an  ale-house  just  thi-ee  miles  off  with 
his  arms  on  the  table  and  his  head  on  his  hands. 

He  had  been  sitting  in  the  same  room  and  in  the  same 
attitude  of  quiet  sadness  for  full  an  hour,  and  when  at 
last  he  started  up  it  was  with  a  sigh  that  told  pretty 
plainly  of  the  effort  the  movement  had  cost  him. 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  glanced  at  the  win- 
dow. 


FARMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  149 

"  Seven  o'clock,"  he  muttered.  "  The  time  seems  to 
spin  round  so  fast  that  it  makes  me  giddy.  How  many- 
hours  before  I  shall  have  lost  her  forever  ?  Oh,  Wynter 
Leigh,  Wynter  Leigh  !  this  is  neither  wise  nor  manly  to 
sit  like  a  wounded  dog,  fretting  and  moping  for  a  woman 
who  has  thrown  you  over  for  a  wealthier  match. 
"Women  alwaj'^s  have  been  fickle  and  always  will  be. 
But  could  I  have  dreamed  that  my  Muriel,  my  sweet, 
tender-hearted  Muriel,  would  have  been  so  base  ?  I 
raised  her  from  woman  to  angel  in  my  mind,  and  it  was 
there  I  erred.  There's  not  a  woman  in  the  world  that 
gold  can't  buy  if  Muriel  Holt  could  not  withstand  it. 
Poor  girl  I  for  I  can  pity  her  while  I  pity  myself.  Gold 
can't  buy  love,  and  life  without  love  is  worse  than  death. 
I  know  that  well  enough,  for  I'm  wicked  enough  to  wish 
that  I  was  dead  this  minute,  sleeping  quietly  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  churchyard  at  home  with  all  the  dead-and- 
gone  Leighs,  of  whom  I  am  most  assuredly  the  most 
unhappy ! " 

He  caught  up  his  hat  as  he  spoke  and  sauntered 
wearily  into  the  bar. 

The  liostess,  a  smiling  widow,  dropped  a  courtesy  as 
he  passed,  and  with  a  smile  asked  him  if  he  were  going 
to  the  wedding  on  the  morrow. 

He  shook  his  head  with  a  quiet  "  No,"  and  groaning 
inwardly  passed  out  into  the  road. 

It  was  a  beautiful  night,  the  sky  without  a  cloud,  tha 
air  as  soft  and  warm  as  that  of  a  July  night. 


150  FARMEK  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

So  hot  did  it  seem  that  the  miserable  man  felt  stifling, 
and  threw  open  his  coat  to  breathe  freely. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  road  undecided  whether 
to  return  to  the  house  or  walk  on,  but  some  influence,  not 
difficult  to  name,  seemed  to  draw  him  toward  Ruby- 
wood,  and  with  downcast  face,  that  was  darker  and  graver 
than  ever  now,  he  walked  slowly  down  the  dusty  road. 

A  man  passed,  stared  at  him  and  touched  his  hat. 

"  Good  evening,  Master  Leigh." 

He  nodded  and  turned  out  of  the  road  into  a  footpath. 

"  Why  did  I  come  back  ?  "  he  murmured.  "  What 
good  will  it  do  ?  None  in  the  world,  but  help  me  feed 
my  misery.  And  yet  I  felt  that  I  must  be  here,  and, 
though  I  knew  nothing  of  her  marriage,  I  felt  drawn  to 
the  spot  which  has  embittered  my  whole  life.  And  now 
I  would  give  a  hundred  pounds  to  be  able  to  return  as 
quickly  as  I  came.  Again  I  ask  myself  why  I  should 
gather  fresh  pain  and  misery  being  near  her  when  she 
gives  herself  to  him  for  life  ?  No,  I'll  go  no  farther. 
I  can  see  the  church  spire  from  here.  I'll  stop.  Once 
within  sight  of  her  window,  who  knows  what  mad  thing 
I  may  do  ?  Oh,  Muriel,  Muriel,  if  Heaven  had  only  been 
kind  enough  to  keep  us  apart !  " 

As  he  spoke  he  threw  himself  down  at  the  foot  of 
an  old  oak,  and,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  gave 
himself  up  to  his  hopeless,  despairing  misery. 

Two  hours  passed,  darkness  fell,  the  stars  peeped  out, 
at  first  timidly,  and  then  with  a  twinkle  and  glitter  of 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  151 

bravery  thf^t  shamed  all  lesser  lights,  and  still  he  lay, 
going  over  with  weary  pain  every  delicious  moment  he 
had  spent  with  the  woman  to  whom  he  had  given  his 
heart  and  whom  to-morrow  he  would  lose  forever. 

He  might  have  lain  there  the  whole  night  but  for  one 
rousing  incident,  and  that  was  a  strange  phenomenon 
which  presented  itself  in  the  sky  at  which  he  was 
gazing. 

From  a  deep,  blackish  blue  it  was  suddenly  trans- 
formed to  a  brilliant,  fieiy  scarlet. 

For  a  moment  he  stared  with  indifferent  surprise,  but 
the  next,  as  the  crimson  changed  and  flushed  into  an- 
other shade,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  turned  almost  as 
red  as  the  sky  itself. 

It  was  no  phenomenon,  but  simply  the  reflection  of 
fire. 

Some  house  was  burning,  and  that  close  to  him. 

His  heart  gave  a  great  leap,  and  threatened  to  choke 
him,  as  it  flashed  upon  him  that  the  light  was  in  the 
direction  of  Ruby  wood,  and  that  the  farm  itself  might 
be  on  fire. 

He  buttoned  his  coat  with  trembling  fingers,  stuck 
his  hat  tightly  on  his  head,  and  sprang  into  the  path, 
running  as  if  for  dear  life. 

Panting  he  reached  the  stile  and  leaped  into  the  road. 

A  number  of  men,  silent  but  with  anxious  faces,  upon 
which  the  reflection  of  the  fire  fell  with  a  weird  effect, 
were  running  as  hard  as  himself  toward  Ruby  wood. 


152  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

He  caught  a  man's  arm  without  stopping  him. 

"  Where  is  it  ?  ^'  he  asked,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Farmer  Holt's,"  replied  the  man,  in  like  manner, 
never  removing  his  eyes  from  the  flames,  which  as  they 
turned  the  bend  of  the  road  could  be  seen  shooting 
above  the  trees. 

Wynter  Leigh  groaned  aloud. 

"  Ruby  wood  ! "  he  cried,  "  and  a  three  weeks'  drought. 
Not  a  stick  will  be  saved  !  " 

Tlien  he  outran  them  all,  gained  upon  fresh  groups 
farther  on,  and  burst  at  last,  like  a  greyhound,  wet  with 
perspiration  and  panting,  in  front  of  Ruby  wood  wrapped 
in  flames. 

Has  the  reader  ever  seen  a  fire  in  the  country  ?  If 
not  let  him  imagine  a  long,  rambling,  thatched  house, 
built  of  wood,  and  surrounded  by  the  most  combustible 
objects — hay,  straw  and  corn  ricks,  outbuildings  so  dry 
as  to  resemble  touchwood.  And  to  complete  the  picture 
let  him  remember  that  the  only  means  of  stopping  the 
fearful  destruction  lies  in  the  water  of  some  shallow 
pond,  which  can  only  be  applied  by  chance  buckets  that 
are  as  effective  as  thimbles  against  tlie  devouring  flames, 
wliich,  amidst  the  fearful  shrieks  and  screams  of  the 
poor  animals,  crackle  and  laugh  with  fiendish  malice 
as  they  twirl  round  wood  and  straw  and  lick  them  into 
shapeless  ashes. 

In  such  a  scene  Wynter  Leigh  found  himself. 

For  a  moment  he    was  so  stunned  by  the  dreadful 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  153 

din  and  confusion  as  to  be  incapable  of  action,  but  the 
next  he  had  pushed  his  way  through  the  outer  throng 
to  a  small  group  in  the  front  of  the  house,  from  which 
came  the  most  agonizing  groans  and  exclamations. 

The  light  of  the  flames,  which  were  now  completely 
surrounding  the  homestead,  fell  upon  the  faces  of  the 
farmer  and  Mr.  Heatherbridge — the  former  crying  and 
wringing  his  hands,  the  latter  roaming  to  and  fro  with 
helpless,  painful  anxiety. 

As  Leigh  ran  up  the  farmer  turned  his  face,  which 
was  contracted  with  anguish,  and  cried : 

"  My  child  !  Oh,  save  my  lass  !  Let  the  house  go, 
but  save  my  lass  !  " 

Leigh  reeled  for  a  moment. 

Muriel  in  there ! 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  thundered  in  the  old  man's  ear. 

"  There  !  Save  her,  save  her  !  "  cried  the  distracted 
farmer,  pointing  to  Muriel's  window  and  sinking  on  his 
knees. 

Leigh  slipped  off  his  coat  and  sprang  toward  the 
flames. 

A  shout  of  warning  and  terror  rose  from  the  throng. 

"  Come  back  !  It's  madness  !  You'll  be  burned  and 
suffocated,  man  !     Come  back !  " 

He  laughed  with  fiery  scorn  and  plunged  into  the 
seething,  hissing  mass  of  flame. 

They  saw  him,  with  every  button  and  fold  of  his 
shirt  lit  up   hideously ;  then,  as   he  sank  in  the  blaze 


154  FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

and  smoke,  a  cry  of  horror,  echoed  by  a  dull  shriek  from 
the  father,  mingled  with  the  crackling  of  the  flames. 

Mr.  Heatherbridge  sank  upon  a  bench  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands,  misembly  helpless. 

Suddenly  a  shout,  half  of  terror,  half  of  encourage- 
ment, brought  him  to  his  feet,  and  he  saw  two  figures, 
those  of  Muriel  and  the  man  who  had  gone  to  her  rescue, 
in  the  middle  of  the  doorway. 

The  next  moment  he  ran  up,  in  time  to  see  the  father 
clasp  his  rescued  daughter  to  his  breast,  sobbing  like  a 
child. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  where  is  he  ?  "  he  gasped.  "  Let  me 
see  the  man  who  has  given  me  my  lass's  life  !  " 

A  dozen  hands  pushed  a  blackened,  fire-singed  figure 
before  him. 

The  farmer  held  out  his  hand,  but  suddenly  fell  back 
white  and  breathless. 

"  Wynter  Leigh  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Wynter  Leigh,"  gasped  Mr.  Heatherbridge ;  while 
the  crowd  caught  the  name  and  sent  it  round. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  scorched,  blackened  lips,  "  I  am 
Wynter  Leigh,  Mr.  Heatherbridge  I  am  back  in  time  to 
give  you  your  wife." 

The  farmer  clasped  Muriel  with  a  hand  of  steel,  but 
remained  speechless  for  a  moment,  then  groaned. 

"  Miserable  man  !  "  he  cried.  "  My  poor  lass,  I've 
got  thee.  Heaven  be  praised  but  I've  lost  thy  dowiy." 

He  had  forgotten  in  the  stupor  of  the  moment  that 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  155 

such  a  being  as  Wynter  Leigh  existed.  And,  in  the 
pangs  of  avarice  which  seized  him  when  he  remembered 
that  he  had  lost  the  ten  thousand  pounds,  forgot  even 
to  be  grateful  for  his  daughter's  rescued  life. 

"  A  hundred  pounds  to  any  man  who  will  bring  me 
the  tin  box  out  of  my  room.  Two  hundred  pounds  I 
A  thousand  pounds  !     It's  ray  lass's  dowry." 

"  Her  dowry !  "  said  Leigh,  with  a  short,  hoarse 
laugh  ;  "  come,  Mr.  Heatherbridge,  that's  worth  saving. 
Will  you  try  a  venture  for  that  or  shall  I  ?  Suppose 
I  complete  the  gift,  and  make  you  a  present  of  wife, 
dowry  and  all !  " 

And  laughing  scornfully  in  the  weak  man's  face  he 
ran  toward  the  house  again. 

A  cry,  full  of  intense,  overflowing  agony  from  Muriel 
did  not  stop  him,  but  brought  his  blackened  face  round 
to  her  with  a  look  which  none  who  saw  it  can  ever  for- 
get, and  the  next  moment  he  had  plunged  into  the  dense 
smoke,  for  the  second  time. 

The  excitement  now  was  intense.  All  was  forgotten 
save  that  within  that  furnace  was  a  brave,  true-hearted 
man,  who  had  risked  his  life  for  a  second  time,  and  for 
no  other  reason  than  to  save  the  money  intended  for 
the  benefit  of  the  man  who  had  stolen  the  woman  ha 
loved. 

Not  a  man  spoke,  but  all  waited — one — two— three 
minutes. 

Ah  !  there  is  something  I 


156  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Crash,  Crash  I 

The  huge  oaken  rafters  have  split,  and  are  falling  I 

Merciful  Heaven  !  he  must  be  crushed  beneath  them, 
even  though  the  flame  spared  him  ! 

No !  With  a  deafening  shout  they  hail  the  daring 
figure  as  it  stands  upon  the  charred  framework  of  the 
window-ledge. 

Then  half  a  dozen  of  the  bravest  dart  foward  with  a 
tarpaulin,  and  stretch  it  beneath  him,  shouting  to  him 
to  jump  for  his  life. 

He  jumps !  is  caught  and  borne  by  men,  cheering 
madly,  to  the  two  white,  motionless  figures,  father  and 
daughter. 

He  rises,  throws  something  heavy  that  rattles  like 
money  at  their  feet,  then  without  a  moan  falls  exhaust- 
ed and  writhing  with  pain  beside  it. 


The  day  broke  as  beautiful  as  an  August  morning, 
and  the  sun  peering  through  the  closely  drawn  blind 
fell  upon  the  scorched  face  of  the  hero  of  the  last  night. 

He  was  lying  motionless  but  awake,  his  hands,  black- 
ened and  blistered,  stretched  upon  the  coverlid,  his  breast 
bandaged,  and  his  thick  hair  singed  and  charred. 

So  great  was  the  pain  that  he  dared  not  open  his  lips 
for  fear  of  uttering  the  groans  which  he  stifled  between 
his  clenched  teeth. 

He  had  been  carried  there — to  his  old  room — by  the 


FAKMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  157 

tender,  careful  hands  of  men  who  would  have  died  for 
him,  and  who  were  now  massed  beneath  his  window 
waiting  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  doctor's  face. 

Before  the  day  had  gone  he  was  happily  unconscious 
of  his  agony,  and  was  raving  in  delirium,  calling  on 
Heaven  to  save  his  Muriel,  and  fighting  with  his  hands 
through  walls  of  flame. 

Then  a  white-clad  figure  with  a  tearful  face  hovered 
round  his  bed  with  lips  that  murmured  prayers  for  him 
and  longed  to  kiss  his  face. 

In  the  morning  he  awoke  weak  and  exhausted  but 
conquering,  and  the  first  objects  his  eyes  saw  were 
Farmer  Holt  and  beautiful  Muriel  leaning   over  him. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  he  said,  "  I  dreamed  you  were 
lost  after. all,"  and  he  shuddered.  "Where  is  Mr. 
Heatherbridge — your  husband  ?  " 

The  old  man,  who  had  aged  ten  years  in  appearance 
during  the  excitement  of  those  few  fearful  hours,  an- 
swered him : 

"  My  lass  has  no  husband  yet,  Master  Leigh,  and 
she's  come  to  ask  your  pardon  and  be  one  for  her. " 

The  sick  man  raised  himself  on  his  arms  and  stared 
at  him. 

"  Not  married  !  "  he  breathed. 

"  No,  nor  won't  be  till  you  get  better,"  said  the  old 
man.     "  And  not  then  if  we  get  our  deserts.  " 

"  Do  you  mean, "  said  Leigh,  trembling,  "  that  you 
will  i^ive  her  to  me  ?  " 


168  FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  I  mean  that  I  hold  her  yours,  seeing  that  you  saved 
her  life  and  her  money,  while  the  man  who  ought  to 
have  done  it  stood  by  like  a  ninny.  She's  yours,  Master 
Leigh,  that  is  if  so  be  as  you  will  explain  one  thing.  " 

Wynter  Leigh  nodded,  but  he  did  not  speak  or  re- 
move his  eyes  from  the  loved  head  beside  him,  and  to 
which  his  hand  was  wandering  longingly. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  that  fine  lady  was  that 
came  down  here  after  you,"  and  the  old  man's  brow 
contracted. 

Wynter  Leigh  shook  his  head,  then  smiled  suddenly. 

*'  Ah ! "  he  said,  with  a  world  of  meaning.  "  That 
was  my  cousin,  who  came  from  Australia  to  bring  me 
news  that  would  have  been  as  precious  as  rain  in  drought 
if  it  had  not  come  too  late.  She  brought  me  word  that 
my  uncle  had  died  and  left  me  thirty  thousand  pounds 
and  an  Australian  farm." 

"  Slie  did  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  his  eyes  spark- 
ling. 

"  And  now  may  I  have  her  ?  "  asked  Leigh,  with  the 
eagerness  of  a  boy ;  and,  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bowed  head. 

"  Take  her,  and  a  wicked  old  man's  blessing,  too," 
muttered  Farmer  Holt,  and  he  trudged  from  the 
room. 

"  Muriel,"  Wynter  whispered. 

She  raised  her  face,  all  flushed  with  the  light  of  joy  and 
her  lips  sought  his  hand. 


FARMER  HOLT'S  DAUGHTER.  159 

"  No,  no,  "  he  said,  hastily.  "  Not  till  it  is  well, 
Muriel." 

But  she  took  both  hands  tenderly,  and  kissed  them 
fervently. 

Rubywood  is  rebuilt,  and  if  the  reader  would  like  to 
feast  his  eyes  with  a  picture  of  English  domestic  felicity 
let  him  run  down  and  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leigh. 

The  Howe  knows  craven-hearted  Mr.  Heatherbridge 
no  more  ;  he  has  flown,  dismayed  and  vanquished  by  no 
mightier  a  giant  than  simple  Jaffer,  who  has  returned 
to  Goody,  and  who  is  always  willing  to  explain  how 
while  he  took  Mr.  Leigh's  letter  to  Muriel  he  met  Mr. 
Heatherbridge,  who  with  great  dexterity  managed  to 
change  the  letter  for  a  tradesman's  circular  and  so  de- 
ceive Muriel, who  receive  the  flowery  announcement  as 
a  meaningless  kindness  of  poor  Jaffer,  and  little  guessed 
that  it  had  been  palmed  off  on  him  as  the  letter  he  had 
been  sent  to  deliver. 

Yes,  Jaffer  is  back,  not  at  all  cured  of  his  indiscrim- 
inate laughter,  and  the  faithful  old  Williams  is  back. 
There  are  none  but  friends  round  Rubywood,  where 
a  famous  artist  by  the  name  of  Vandike  is  now  painting 
a  little  gem,  representing  a  man  carrying  a  lifeless  girl 
through  a  burning  house,  and  which  picture  Muriel 
Leigh  intends  christening  "Farmer  Holt's  Daugh- 
ter." 

[  THE  END.  ] 


A    SEVERE    LESSON, 

AND  OTHER  STORIES. 


BY 

"FRANCES    HENSHAW    BADEN. 


A  SEVERE  LESSON. 

BY  FRANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

SHE  had  such  a  sweet,  fair  face,  with  an  expression  of 
perfect  candor  and  truth,  that  it  would  seem  impotssi- 
ble  to  doubt  her.     Yet  George  Peyton  did,  and  said : 

"  It  is  difficult  not  to  believe  one's  own  eyes,  Fannie.  I 
saw  you  walking  with  him,  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  listen- 
ing with  unmistakable  pleasure  to  his  words.  Can  you 
deny  this?" 

"  No,  I  cannot.  But  a  giri  can  walk  witn  a  genueman, 
and  listen  with  pleasure  to  his  words — " 

"  Not  without  being  careless,  to  say  the  least,  of  others' 
feelings.  And  if  so,  then  false  to  one  that  she  has  prom- 
ised to  love  only,  of  all  the  world — " 

"  How  can  you  talk  so  to  me  ?  How  can  you  doubt  me, 
George  ?  Again  I  tell  you  that  Edgar  Mowbray  cares  not 
for  me.  There  is  another  girl  in  this  house  to  love  besides 
me.     You  forget  Annie  is  no  longer  a  child." 

"Enough,  Fannie.  Promise  me  you  will  see  him  no 
more,  and  I  will  believe  you." 

"Why,  George,  I  cannot  do  that.  How  can  I  avoid 
seeing  him,  when  uncle  and  aunt  receive  him,  and  think 
so  much  of  him  ?    Let  me  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  Excuse  me.  Miss  Melton.  That  you  have  no  regard 
for  my  wishes  is  sufficient  to  prove  to  me  the  truth  of  my 
surmises.  Allow  me  to  wish  you  much  happiness,  and 
good*evening.'* 

(163) 


164  A    SEVEEE    LESSON. 

And  the  miserable,  jealous  man  turned  and  left  Fannie, 
who  stood  as  if  she  was  not  perfectly  sure  that  she  was 
not  just  awakened  from  a  frightful  dream, 

"  Well,  I  knew  he  was  jealous ;  but  never  dreamed  him 
60  frightfully  unreasonable.  I  will  write  and  explain  it 
all  to  him  to-night.  Poor  fellow  !  he  is  miserable  enough," 
thought  Fannie.  But  after  a  little  a  second  thought  came. 
Pride  whispered,  "  No,  let  him  come  back  penitent.  He 
should  have  more  confidence  in  you."  And  so  Fannie 
listened,  and  acted  on  pride's  suggestion. 

The  next  morning,  while  she  was  watching  and  listen- 
ing to  every  step,  hoping  her  lover  would  come,  that 
young  gentleman  had  stepped  into  a  jeweller's  to  get  some 
repairs  done  to  his  watch.  While  waiting  for  it,  one  of 
the  clerks,  with  whom  George  had  some  slight  acquain- 
tance, was  giving  some  orders  relative  to  the  marking  of  a 
ring.  It  was  a  very  handsome  diamond  solitaire  which 
the  clerk  held  for  George's  inspection,  saying : 

"I  wonder  if  this  is  an  engagement  ring?  Mowbray — • 
you  know  him,  do  you  not  ? — purchased  it  a  little  while 
ago.  Where  did  I  put  that  slip  of  paper  with  the  initials?  " 
he  asked,  looking  about  the  counter. 

"  I  have  it,"  replied  a  young  man  near;  and  continued  : 
"  But  really,  I  think  you  better  not  make  a  public  thing 
of  this.  Perhaps — in  fact,  generally,  gentlemen  do  not 
care  to  have  these  little  affairs  so  freely  spoken  of." 

"  Oh,  sure  enough  1  You  are  right  I  I  did  not  think ! 
You'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Peyton.  However,  I  suppose  it  is 
a  matter  of  no  interest  to  you,"  the  gentleman  replied, 
turning  from  the  prudent  young  clerk  to  Mr.  Peyton. 

"Certainly  not,"  George  answered;  received  his  watch 
and  left  the  store,  convinced  then  that  Fannie  was  false. 
He  felt  confident  that  the  man  who  had  withheld  the 
initials  &om  his  knowledge  had  some  idea  of  his  /'^mer 


A    SEVERE    LESSON.  165 

relation  to  the  lady,  and  consequently  his  motive  for  doing 
go.  Full  of  wrath,  he  returned  home,  bundled  up  Fannie's 
letters,  picture,  and  sundry  little  keepsakes,  and  sent  them 
to  her,  with  a  note  saying  that  "  Miss  Melton  would  oblige 
him  by  either  destroying  or  returning  to  his  address, 
letters  and  other  articles  which  he  had  given  her."  Then 
telling  his  mother  and  sister  he  was  going  on  pressing 
business  out  West,  packed  his  trunk  and  started. 

Reaching  his  place  of  destination,  he  found  there  a  party 
of  young  friends  who  were  about  starting  for  California. 
They  urged  and  insisted  on  his  accompanying  them. 
Glad  of  any  excuse  to  keep  him  from  home  and  divert  his 
mind,  the  reckless  fellow  agreed  to  their  proposal,  and 
went  with  them. 

In  the  meantime  Fannie  began  to  think  that  George 
Peyton  never  really  loved  her,  and  was  anxious  for  some 
plea  for  withdrawing  his  suit.  And  if  she  found  pleasure 
in  the  society  of  the  handsome  Mowbray,  and  began  to 
compare  his  candid,  noble  nature  with  George's,  in  a  very 
unfavorable  light  to  the  latter,  was  it  any  wonder  ? 

While  in  San  Francisco  George  received  a  letter  from 
his  sister,  in  which  she  wrote : 

"  Mr,  Mowbray  is  a  very  constant  visitor  at  Mr.  Melton's. 
But,  now  I  think  of  it,  he  was  before  you  left;  so  you 
know  all  about  his  hopes  and  aspirations.  She  is  a  dear, 
sweet  girl,  and  I  hope  Avill  be  very  happy.  Rumor  says 
Mr.  Melton  is  not  very  well  pleased — that  he  had  other 
views  for  her.  There  is  no  engagement  proclaimed  as  yet. 
George,  I  cannot  think  what  made  you  fly  off  from  us  in 
such  haste.  Somehow  I  cannot  divest  my  mind  from  the 
idea  that  Fannie  was  the  cause.  I  had  thought  she  would 
be  something  nearer  and  dearer  to  me  than  a  friend." 

George  threw  down  the  letter  with  an  impatient  gesture, 
and  said  bitterly  : 
"  Yes.  Mr.  Melton  always  favored  me,  and  I  believe  he 


166  A    SEVEBE    LESSON. 

is  my  warm  friend.  Oh,  I  could  not  have  thought  she 
would  be  so  false.  Nothing  but  my  own  eyes,  her  words, 
and — well,  indeed,  everything  else — the  occurrence  in  the 
jeweller's,  and  now  Katy's  letter,  would  have  convinced 
me.     Well,  well,  I  can  never  trust  in  woman  again." 

He  felt  very  miserable,  and  longed  to  confide  his  grief 
to  some  one.  His  most  particular  friend,  Will  Austin, 
was  with  him.  George  was  very  much  attached  to  him, 
and  so  made  him  his  confidant.  Will  listened  attentively 
until  George  had  fully  relieved  his  mind  and  heart,  and 
then  he  said: 

"  Greorge,  I  think  you  were  very  hasty,  and  very  much 
to  blame.  And  if  the  young  lady  has  cast  you  from  her 
heart,  and  learned  to  care  for  this  Mowbray,  it  is  all  your 
own  fault.  You  were  very  unreasonable.  But,  pshaw  I 
what  jealous  person  was  ever  possessed  of  any  reason  ?  " 

His  friend's  plain  talk  did  George  good,  and  he  grew 
somewhat  reasonable  after  it.  And  his  thoughts  flew 
back  to  the  time  when  he  first  knew  Fannie ;  of  the  many 
gentlemen  who  sought  the  love  that  he  had  won  ;  of  the 
gentleness  with  which  she  bore  with  his  whims ;  how  she 
had  yielded  to  his  wishes — all  save  the  one,  which  then, 
he  felt,  had  been  very  unreasonable.  And  when  she  was 
most  likely  lost  to  him,  slie  grew  dearer.  And  so  he 
resolved  to  return,  perhaps  before  it  was  too  late.  Nearly 
three  months  had  elapsed  since  he  left  home,  when  he 
determined  to  return  as  speedily  as  possible.  When  on 
the  eve  of  starting  he  received  a  letter,  in  which  Katy 
wrote: 

"In  my  last  I  gave  you  all  the  particulars  of  the 
wedding.  Mr.  Melton  seems  quite  reconciled  to  the 
happy  Mowbray.  Fannie  looks  miserable.  I  really 
believe  she  did  care  for  you.  They  have  all  gone  travel* 
liDg^  Mid  inteiui.  being  absent  during  the  warm  weather." 


A    SEVERE    LESSOir.  107 

The  letter  spoken  of  by  Katy  had  never  reached  George. 
Fate  willed  it  80 — and  he  was  not  sorry.  It  was  agony 
enough  to  know  she  was  lost  to  him,  without  reading  the 
minute  details  of  his  rival's  happiness.  Poor  fellow !  he 
could  not  remain  content  anywhere  then.  He  travelled 
from  one  place  to  another,  endeavoring,  ^y  excitement 
and  constant  change  of  scene,  to  forget  Fannie.  From  the 
quiet  mountain  retreats  he  would  fly  to  some  crowded, 
fashionable  resort,  until  at  length  he  visited  Saratoga, 

The  next  morning  he  sauntered  into  the  office  and 
began  looking  over  the  new  arrivals.  Several  familiar 
names,  persons  from  his  own  city,  met  his  eyes.  And 
then,  a  Httle  further  down  the  page,  came  those,  of  all 
persons  in  the  world,  the  most  undesirable  for  him  to 
meet — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edgar  Mowbray,  Mr.  Henry  Melton 
and  daughter. 

Hurrying  back  to  his  room,  he  determined  to  keep  out 
of  sight  until  the  next  train,  and  leave  in  that  for  his 
home.  He  could  not  meet  them — see  her  the  wife  of 
another.  He  was  not  well,  and  was  beginning  to  feel 
quite  anxious  to  get  back  to  his  mother  and  sister.  When 
the  time  came  for  the  train  to  start,  poor  George's  head 
was  aching  so  terribly  he  could  not  stand  up;  so,  of 
course,  he  had  to  give  up  the  idea  of  leaving  then,  and 
wait  until  the  next  day.  He  grew  worse  rapidly.  The 
morning  found  him  really  very  ill.  Some  friend,  missing 
him  all  the  previous  day,  went  to  his  room  in  search  of 
him,  and  found  the  poor  fellow  with  a  raging  fever,  and 
quite  delirious.  He  summoned  the  proprietor  and  his 
wife,  who  procured  the  services  of  a  physician.  Very  soon 
the  Meltons  heard  of  George  Peyton's  being  so  near  them 
and  iU.  They  were  very  attentive ;  indeed,  most  of  their 
time  was  devoted  to  him.  Many  days  had  passed  before 
George  was  out  of  danger.  Awakening  one  morning  from 
a  le&eshine  sleep,  his  mind  theA  «»uite  clear,  he  caught  a 


168  A    SEYEEE    LESSON. 

g-lance  of  Fannie  as  she  flitted  from  the  room.  Mr. 
Melton  remained,  and  endeavored,  in  his  kind,  genial 
way,  to  cheer  Georg-e.  The  days  of  his  convalescing 
were  many.  Indeed  he  grew  better  very  slowly. 
Annie,  her  father,  and  Mr.  Mowbray  were  constantly 
with  him ;  the  latter,  if  possible,  more  attentive  than 
the  others.  Georg-e  tried  to  feel  very  grateful,  but  he 
could  not  feel  right  toward  him.  How  could  he  be 
expected  to?  His  manner  was  always  reserved,  and 
really  cold.  Mowbray  felt  it,  and  one  day  he  deter- 
mined to  speak  to  George  about  it.  So,  seizing  the 
first  good  opportunity,  he  said  : 

"  Peyton,  you  try  hard  to  hide  your  feelings  ;  but  I 
can  see  plain  enough  you  do  not  like  me.  And  I'd  like 
to  know  the  reason  ?  " 

George  looked  at  him,  a  world  of  reproach  in  his 
ey^s  as  he  answered  : 

•*  Mr.  Mowbray,  if  you  have  detected  my  true  feelings 
I  regret  it  because  of  your  recent  kindness.  But  this  is 
a  subject  I  would  prefer  not  conversing  upon.  I  have 
sought  to  avoid  it,  and  should  think  the  desire  would 
be  mutual.'* 

"  Now,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean. 
I  only  know  you  dislike  me.  And  really,  I  should  think 
you  might  try  not  to,  a  little,  for  my  wife's  sake. 
Here  she  has  been  as  devoted  as  a  sister  to  you  all  the 
daj'S  of  your  illness.  I  declare,  I'll  carry  her  off  home, 
and  leave  you  to  remorse,  if  you  don't  feel  a  little  pleas- 
anter  toward  me,  or  explain  in  what  way  I  have  merited 
your  aversion." 

George  thought  his  mind  was  getting  very  much 
clouded  again.  He  could  not,  to  save  him,  call  to  mind 
Fannie's  ever  being  near  him  but  the  one  time  when  he 
had  seen  her  dart  from  the  room.  Then  he  thought, 
could  it  be  possible  that  Mowbray  never  knew  of  his 


A    SEVERE    LESSON.  169 

ceived  him  about  it,  or  he  never  could  talk  thus  to  a 
former  lover  of  his  wife's.  If  so,  Mowbray  was  in  no 
way  to  blame,  and  he  really  had  no  just  cause  to  dis- 
like him.     Putting-  out  his  hand,  he  said  : 

"Mr.  Mowbray,  will  you  forgive  me?  I  feel  sure 
now  I  have  no  cause  to  feel  other  than  most  kindly 
toward  you.  Please  do  not  allude  to  this  subject  ag-ain. 
And  will  you  express  my  thanks  to  Mrs.  Mowbray  for 
her  kindness  ?  I  must  have  been  most  of  the  time  dur- 
ing- my  illness  quite  out  of  my  mind.  I  never  remem- 
ber to  have  seen  Mrs.  Mowbray  but  once  in  my  room." 

Edgar  Mowbray  g-rasped  his  hand  warmly,  but  g-ave 
">v  very  searching-  look  at  the  invalid,  to  see  if  he  was 
quite  right  in  mind  then. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  Edg-ar  Mowbray 
exclaimed  : 

"  Ah,  here  she  is  now  !  Annie,  come  here  and  talk 
to  your  charge." 

"Here  who  is?"  cried  George,  wildly. 

**  Annie,  my  wife,"  answered  Mowbray,  spring-ing 
up,  and  turning-  a  bowl  of  crushed  ice  into  a  towel  and 
applying-  it  to  George's  head,  whispered  to  Annie : 

*'  Fly  for  the  doctor !     He  is  terribly  ill  ag-ain.'* 

**  Say  it  again.  Annie — not  Fannie — your  wife  ?  " 
cried  George. 

**  Yes ;  Annie  is  my  wife,  certainly.  Run  for  the 
doctor,  love." 

But  little  Annie  was  wiser  than  her  husband.  She 
knew  who  would  be  the  most  successful  physician  for 
George,  who  murmured  : 

"Thank  God  I "  And,  overcome  by  his  extreme 
weakness  and  great  emotion,  fainted. 

Annie  was  not  alarmed.  She  explained  the  mystery 
to  her  husband.  And  after  seeing  George  restored 
again  to  consciousness,  hastened  out  to  tell  Fannie. 

"When  she  reli»«:ncd  to  Georere  airain,  he  whispered : 


170  A    SEVERE    LESSON. 

''Entreat  Fannie  to  come  to  me,  or  I  must  go  to 
her.    I  will — I  must  see  her." 

Annie  went  to  do  his  bidding.  And  so  eloquently  did 
she  plead  for  him,  that  in  a  short  time  she  returned, 
pushed  Fannie  into  the  room,  and  ran  away  quite 
delighted. 

"  Forgive,  and  take  me  back  to  your  heart,  Fannie, 
or  I  shall  surely  die.  Speak,  please ;  say  you  have  not 
ceased  to  love  me  ?  "  George  pleaded. 

How  could  she  resist  him  ?  He  looked  so  wan  and 
ill.  She  placed  her  hand  in  his,  bent  over  and  pressed 
her  lips  to  his  white  brow,  and  said : 

"  How  could  you  ever  have  doubted  me,  Georga  ?  I 
am  still  yours,  if  you  wish.     And  promise — " 

"  Never  to  doubt  you  again,  my  true,  faithful  love  1 
Oh,  I  had  a  fearful  lesson.*'  And  then  he  told  her  of 
the  many  things  that  had  happened  to  prove  clearly  to 
his  mind  that  she  was  lost  to  him.  The  way  his  sister 
wrote  was  calculated  to  deceive  him,  although  very 
unintentional  on  her  part.  And  then  the  manner  in 
which  their  names  were  registered :  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mowbray,  Mr.  Melton  and  daughter."  Was  further 
proof  needed  ? 

Fannie  explained  everything,  and  the  last  by  telling 
George  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  their  party,  only  slightly 
acquainted  with  them,  had  written  their  names,  and 
supposed  she  was  really  Mr.  Melton's  daughter.  * '  You 
know,"  she  said,  "uncle  often  calls  me  'my  daugh- 
ter.' " 

George  grew  rapidly  well  then.  Love  was  the  needed 
balm.  A  very  few  days  after  the  joyous  truth  came  to 
him,  he  was  strong  enough  to  travel  home.  And  early 
in  the  fall,  Fannie  became  his.  Never  again  was  he 
attacked  with  a  fit  of  jealousy,  and  has  become,  under 
Fannie's  charge  and  instruction,  a  very  sensib*^  and 
reasonable  man. 


ALMOST  A  CRIME. 

BY  FRANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  beast  and  fowl ; 
He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  bes*i 

All  creatures,  great  and  small ; 
For  the  good  Lord,  who  loveth  us. 

He  made  and  loveth  all. — CoL.ERiDGft. 

14  T7 1>DIE,  do  put  down  that  ugly  creature.  You  ar« 
I  J  a  perfect  beast  worshipper, "  said  Bertha  Denni- 
3on,  the  young  bride,  to  her  three  weeks'  bridegroom. 

He  obeyed,  as  bridegrooms  of  three  weeks  are  apt  to 
do;  but  he  expostulated,  as  husbands  of  all  times  are 
sure  to  do. 

"  If  cherishing  means  worshipping.  Bertha,  you 
might  call  me  a  beast  worshipper.     And  if — " 

She  interrupted  him  sharply. 

"  I  would  not  mind  if  it  was  a  pretty  tortoise-shell 
kitten ;  but  a  great  ugly  old  tabby  cat !  " 

"My  darling!  "  said  Edward  Dennison,  gravel}^  "I 
was  about  to  say,  if  you  knew  the  reason  for  m^''  being 
kind  to  this  cat,  and  to  all  God's  poor  dumb  creatures 
that  come  in  our  way,  you  would  not  blame  me.  I 
could  tell  you  something.  Bertha.   Will  3^ou  listen  ?  " 

She  poutsed,  instead  of  answering. 

"  My  mother,  you  know,  was  a  notable  housekeeper. 
She  kept  her  house  in  perfect  order,  and  ruled  every- 

(171) 


173  ALMOST  A  CRIME. 

thing  in  it,  both  animate  and  inanimate,  except  one 
thing- — a  young  rebel  of  a  cat,  which  was  the  torment 
of  her  life,  through  jumping  up  on  the  tea-table,  licking 
the  butter,  stealing  into  the  pantrj^,  lapping  the  cream, 
and  committing  divers  other  petty  depredations  ab- 
horrent to  the  souls  of  careful  housewives.  It  was  but 
a  thoughtless  young  cat,  but  might  have  grown  better 
■with  time  and  teaching.  But  my  mother  declared  she 
was  out  of  all  patience  with  her. 

"  One  dark  December  day  I  came  home  from  school, 
and  found  mother  in  our  tidy  kitchen,  where  we  always 
took  our  meals  in  winter.  She  was  busy  setting  the 
table  for  tea,  and  in  a  great  passion  besides.  I  soon 
saw  the  reason.  The  cream-jug  was  turned  over, 
broken,  and  the  cream  spilled.  Of  course  the  young 
cat  was  the  culprit,  although  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.    Mother  spoke  up  suddenly  and  sharply  : 

"•Eddie,  I'll  give  you  a  silver  quarter  of  a  dollar, 
if  you  will  take  that  cat  and  drown  her.  I  can  never 
leave  the  room  one  minute  but  she  is  up  on  the  table. 
And  now  she  has  gone  and  broken  my  best  cream-jug. 
I'U  give  you  a  silver  quarter  if  you  will  tie  a  stone 
around  her  neck  and  drown  her.' 

"A  silver  quarter  !  I  walked  out  into  the  yard  in 
search  of  the  cat.  I  found  her  sitting  up  on  top  of  the 
chicken-house,  licking  and  trimming  herself — for  she 
was  a  vain  little  creature — in  total  unconsciousness  of 
her  guilt  and  impending  doom.  I  called  her,  *  Pussy, 
pussy,  pussy ! '  She  immediately  jumped  down  and 
ran  joyously  to  me.  I  picked  her  up  in  my  arms,  and 
she  greeted  me  with  her  poor,  inarticulate,  tender  tones, 
as  she  rubbed  her  head  against  my  cheek  and  chin. 
Even  then  my  heart  smote  me  for  a  moment  for  what 
I  was  going  to  do  to  her. 


ALMOST    A    CEIME.  173 

"But  I  hardened  my  heart,  and  trotted  oflF  to- 
ward the  river,  went  upon  the  hridge,  and  found  a 
g-ood  place  for  the  deed.  At  that  moment  my  good 
angel  left  me,  for  I  took  from  my  pocket  the  cord  and 
stone  that  I  had  provided,  and  while  she  was  purring 
and  playing  with  the  cord,  grimly  tied  one  end  of  it 
around  her  neck  and  the  other  end  of  it  around  the 
stone.  '  It  will  soon  be  over,  and  after  all,  she  is  noth- 
ing hut  a  cat,'  I  said.  And  I  held  he^^  over  the  bridge 
to  drop  her  into  the  ri^^er.  Then  indeed  she  clung  to 
me,  and  looked  astonishe*^  and  wild.  For  the  first  time 
she  seemed  to  know  her  danger.  She  struggled,  and 
grasped  my  coat  with  her  claws  and  held  on.  But  I 
pulled  her  away  by  force  and  threw  her  into  the  river. 
I  heard  the  splash,  and  saw  the  water  close  over  her. 
I  hurried  away  from  the  spot,  with  the  sickening  im- 
pression that  I  had  done  a  murder.  I  thought  of  her 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Potomac,  suffocating  to  death,  and 
I  had  to  keep  repeating  to  myself,  *  Oh,  it  will  soon  be 
over  with  her.  And  after  all,  she  is  nothing  but  a  cat. 
And  besides,  didn't  mother  tell  me  to  drown  her  ? '  It 
would  not  do;  my  heart  was  decidedly  heavy.  Never 
do  you  do  a  murder.  Bertha.  No  one  but  a  murderer 
knows  how  it  oppresses  one's  spirits. 

**  It  was  raining  hard  when  I  reached  home.  I  found 
mother  just  where  I  left  her,  busy  in  the  kitchen.  She 
was  standing  at  the  table,  slicing  bread  for  tea. 

" '  Well,  mother,  I  have  drowned  the  cat,*  I  said, 
knocking  the  rain-drops  off  my  cap. 

"  *  What !  '  she  exclaimed,  ceasing  her  employment, 
and  poising  the  knife  in  one  hand  and  the  bread  in  the 
other,  as  she  stared  at  me. 

"  *  Yes,  I've  drowned  the  cat ;  and  now  I  want  my 
silver  quarter  of  a  dollar.* 


174  ALMOSTACEIME. 

"  *  You  did  ! '  she  said,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  sad« 
ness,  and  reproach  on  her  face. 

*'  *  Yes;  I  tied  a  stone  around  her  neck  to  sink  her, 
and  dropped  her  into  the  river.  And  you  promised  me 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar  for  doing-  it,'  I  answered,  sulkily, 
for  I  felt  injured  by  her  look. 

"  Without  a  single  word  she  put  her  hand  into  her 
pocket,  drew  out  a  silver  quarter,  and  gave  it  to  me, 
turning  her  head  away.  I  felt  more  injured  than  before. 
What  did  mother  mean  ?    I  only  did  what  she  told  me. 

*'  But  as  I  was  going  to  a  concert,  I  tried  to  throw 
off  all  unpleasant  thoughts.  I  dressed  myself  and  came 
down  and  joined  the  family  at  tea  without  much  appe- 
tite. Besides,  I  missed  something — I  missed  the  little 
cat,  who  always  sat  by  my  chair  and  touched  me  softly 
with  her  paw  now  and  then,  to  remind  me  to  give  her  a 
morsel.  I  gulped  down  my  tea,  and  started  off  to  Con- 
cert Hall  to  see  the  minstrels.  And  soon,  seated  in  the 
front  row,  enjoying  the  unparalleled  burlesque  of  song- 
and  sentiment,  I  forgot  all  about  my  deed  of  the  even- 
ing. Or  if  I  thought  of  it  at  all,  it  was  only  to  laugh 
at  myself  as  a  sickly,  sentimental  sort  of  a  fellow,  to 
think  so  much  about  drowning  a  cat. 

*'  After  the  performance  I  came  home.  It  was  not 
very  late,  yet  the  family  had  retired.  I  took  the  key 
from  under  the  step,  where  it  was  usually  hidden  for  any 
of  the  family  who  were  out  at  night,  and  opened  the 
kitchen  door  and  went  in.  The  stove  was  warm,  and  a, 
night-lamp  was  burning  on  the  table.  Everything  had 
been  left  comfortable  for  me,  and  I  sat  down  before  the 
fire  to  dry  my  wet  clothes.  But  how  empty  and  deso- 
late and  forlorn  the  place  looked  after  all !  I  missed 
something.  It  was  the  cat,  who  always  slept  at  night 
on  the  rug"  in  front  of  the  stove ;  who  always  welcomed 


ALMOST   A    CEIME.  175 

me  home,  when  I  came  in  at  nig-ht,  by  getting  up  and 
rubbing-  against  my  shins  and  purring-  her  pleasure 
at  seeing"  me.  And  now  she  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Potomac,  with  a  stone  tied  to  her  neck ;  and  JT  had 
thrown  her  there.     And  for  a  mean  quarter  of  a  dollar  I 

*'  I  g-ot  up,  took  the  lamp,  and  went  up-stairs  to  bed. 
But  I  could  not  sleep.  How  the  wind  and  the  rain 
lashed  and  beat  ag-ainst  the  windows  !  How  I  thought 
of  the  cat  at  the  bottom  of  the  river  !  '  And  she  had 
but  this  one  life,  and  I  took  that  for  a  base  quarter  of  a, 
dollar, '  I  said  to  myself.  And  oh,  I  would  have  g-ladly 
given  all  the  bo3ish  treasures  I  possessed  in  the  world, 
if  I  could  have  brought  her  back  to  life.  And  so  I  lay 
and  tossed  from  side  to  side,  listening  to  the  beating  of 
the  storm,  and  thought  what  a  mean  and  cruel  wretch 
I  had  been. 

"  Hush  !  what  was  that  ?  I  started,  and  sat  up  in 
bed  and  listened.  As  sure  as  I  live,  it  was  a  scratch 
and  a  mew,  at  the  kitchen  door — sounds  as  familiar  to 
me  as  the  children's  voices ;  but  that  I  never  had  ex- 
pected to  hear  again.  Well,  I  have  heard  Thalbero^ 
and  Ole  Bull  play ;  I've  heard  Lind  and  Nilsson  sing ; 
I've  heard  the  dinner-bell ;  but  of  all  the  instrumental 
or  vocal  music  I  ever  heard,  none  ever  thrilled  my  soul 
vnth  such  delight  as  that  performance  on  the  kitchen 
door. 

*'  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it,  I  jumped  out  of 
bed ;  and  without  waiting  to  draw  on  a  single  garment, 
I  ran  down-stairs,  half  naked,  in  the  cold,  and  tore  open 
the  kitchen  door.  There  stood  my  cat,  dripping  wet, 
with  the  cord  dangling  round  her  neck,  and  the  empty 
noose.  I  saw  in  an  instant  how  it  was.  In  falUng  over 
the  bridge,  when  she  was  thro\NTi,  the  round  stone  had 
slipp'^d  from  the  noose,  and  the  poor  cat  had  swam 


176  ALMOST    A    CEIMB. 

ashore,  and  found  her  way  home  through  night  and 
storm.  As  soon  as  she  saw  me,  she  jumped  in  and 
rubbed  up  against  my  shins,  with  her  poor,  confiding 
mew,  just  as  if  I  had  never  tried  to  drown  her.  I 
caught  her  up  in  ray  arms,  all  dripping  wet  as  she  was. 
I  hugged  her,  kissed  her,  and  comforted  her  in  a  manner 
that,  under  any  other  circumstances,  would  have  been 
supremely  absurd.  I  took  her  up-stairs  with  me,  dried 
her  as  well  as  I  could  with  my  towel,  and,  damp  and 
cold  as  she  was,  took  her  to  bed  with  me. 

"  Oh,  how  relieved  I  was  !  How  I  loved  that  cat  for 
getting  out  of  the  river  and  coming  home !  I  talked  to 
her,  and  petted  her,  half  of  the  night.  I  told  her  how 
sorry  I  was,  and  how  I  never  would  do  it  again.  But 
she  seemed  perfectly  indifferent  to  my  crime  and  re* 
pentance,  and  only  cuddled  up  to  my  bosom,  and  purred 
and  sung,  in  a  funny  content,  until  we  both  fell  asleep. 

"  In  the  morning,  when  I  went  down  to  breakfast,  I 
carried  the  cat  in  my  arms,  and  sat  down  with  her  at 
the  table. 

*'  *  Why,  I  thought  you  had  drowned  that  cat,  Eddie  I ' 
my  mother  said,  with  a  look  strangely  blended  of 
pleasure  and  pain,  as  if  she  was  glad  the  cat  was  alive, 
yet  sorry  that  her  boy  had  deceived  her  and  obtained 
money  under  false  pretences.  *  I  say  I  thought  you  had 
drowned  that  cat,  Eddie,'  she  repeated,  as  if  demand- 
ing an  explanation. 

**  *  Well,  so  I  did  drown  her  1 '  I  answered,  playing 
sulkj\  *  At  least,  I  tried  my  best  to  do  it.  I  tied  a 
stone  round  her  neck  to  sink  her,  and  then  dropped  her 
hito  the  Potomac.  But  she  got  out,  somehow  or  other, 
and  came  home  last  night.  I  suppose  the  stone  slipped 
out  of  the  noose,  and  she  swam  asliore.  All  cats  can 
swim,  you  know.    And  now,  must  I  try  it  again  ? ' 


ALMOST  A  CBIMB.  177 

•*  *  Jfo,'  said  my  mother.  And  that  was  all  that  ever 
passed  between  us  on  the  subject. 

*'  But  from  that  time  pussy  ate  of  my  bread  and  drank 
of  my  cup  by  day,  and  slept  on  my  bed  at  night,  until 
the  war  broke  out.  I  cured  her  of  her  cream-stealing" 
propensities.  If  any  one  had  even  spoken  harshly  to- 
that  cat,  they  vrould  have  had  to  quarrel  with  me» 
The  war  separated  us  for  a  time,  as  it  did  many  good 
friends,  but  peace  reunited  us,  and  I  have  brought  her 
to  my  new  home.  And  now,  dear  Bertha,  you  under- 
stand why  I  cherish  the  poor  cat." 

Then,  lifting  the  animal  tenderly  to  his  knee,  he 
caressed  her. 

*'  You  forgave  me  for  trying  to  murder  you,  didn't 
you,  pussy  ?  And  not  many  human  beings  would  hav^ 
done  that,  would  they  ?  " 


WHO  WAS  TO  BE  BRIDE? 

BY  FRANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

•*  T)ROMISE  me,  George,  that  you  will  never  forsakt 

-t  Amy.  After  I  am  gone  she  will  have  no  friend 
but  you.  She  has  always  been  to  me  a  blessing.  If 
she  was  really  my  own  daughter,  I  could  not  love  her 
better.  So,  my  boy,  I  leave  her  a  sacred  charge  to  you. 
Should  the  time  ever  be  when  you  shall  feel  another  love 
than  that  you  bear  your  little  sister,  you  must  not,  in 
securing  your  own  happiness,  forget  hers  —  my  poox^ 
gentle,  timid  little  Amy ! " 

"  Have  no  fear,  mother.  Amy  shall  never  want  for  a 
friend,  or  love.  She  shall  be  as  tenderly  watched  over 
and  cared  for  in  the  future,  as  she  has  ever  been  in  the 
past.     I  solemnly  promise  you  this." 

"Thank  you,  my  son.  You  have  relieved  my  only 
uneasiness.  I  can  rest  now  in  perfect  peace.  Now  send 
Amy  to  me." 

That  night  a  wail  of  sorrow  sounded  through  the  home 
of  George  Foster.  It  was  Amy's  voice.  They  found  her 
»yith  her  arms  still  clasped  around  the  form  so  dear. 
Beorge  drew  her  gently  away,  saying : 

"  Come,  Amy.  You  are  my  child  now.  Mother  gave 
you  to  my  care,  and  may  God  deal  by  me  according  to 
my  worthiness  of  that  charge.  Now  go  and  try  to  sleepy 
my  little  sister." 

He  gave  her  to  the  faithful  housekeeper's  caza 


WHO     WAS     TO     BE     BRIDE?  ITft 

Still  weeping,  but  unresisting,  Amy  did  his  bidding. 
All  her  life  she  had  yielded  to  his  wishes.  Her  brother's 
will  was  hers. 

Mrs.  Foster  was  a  very  wealthy  widow,  owning  a  fine 
plantation  in  the  South,  with  many  slaves.  George  was 
her  only  child  and  constant  companion,  and  at  an  early 
age  became  her  confidant  and  adviser.  This  of  course 
made  him  thoughtful  and  grave  beyond  his  years.  When 
he  was  about  seventeen,  his  mother  adopted  Amy,  an 
infant,  orphaned  and  friendless.  George  was  very  fond 
of  the  pretty  little  child,  and  she  was  taught  by  her 
mother,  as  well  as  all  the  servants,  "Always  mind 
what  your  brother  says,"  or,  "  Do  as  your  brother  tells 
you." 

What  a  loving,  dutiful  little  daughter  and  sister  she 
was  !  And  what  a  capable,  thrifty  little  housekeeper  she 
grew  to  be,  relieving  her  benefactor  of  much  care  1  Proud 
as  well  as  fond  was  Mrs.  Foster  of  her  adopted  child. 

Amy  was  eighteen  when  her  mother's  death  left  her  to 
George's  care.  Scarcely  six  months  had  gone  by,  when 
the  kind  and  considerate  ladies  of  the  neighborhood  began 
to  engage  their  minds  with  thoughts  and  plans  for  the 
'  future  welfare  of  the  wealthiest  young  man  of  their  com- 
munity. It  was  probable  he  would  marry — in  truth, 
quite  desirable  that  he  should,  and  that  his  choice  should 
be  such  as  would  be  acceptable  to  the  parish.  Now  this 
young  man  in  question  was  George  Foster,  who  was  a 
very  attentive  member  of  the  church,  a  communicant, 
and  about  the  most  liberal  contributor  to  all  charitable 
funds. 

While  Mrs.  Foster  lived,  there  was  neither  chance  nor 

hope  for  George's  marrying.     He  was  devoted  alone  to 

ber.    But  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  be  looked 

after.    So  the  rector's  wife,  Mrs.  Charlton,  who  had  a 

IJ 


180  WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BEIDE? 

Very  lovely  young  niece,  thought  that  no  one  covid  be 
more  acceptable  to  every  one  than  her  dear  Adele ;  and 
eo  she  set  herself  to  work  to  manage  the  affair  skilfully. 

She  began  with  sending,  on  several  occasions,  for  Mr, 
Poster,  to  advise  with  and  help  the  rector  and  herself  in 
matters  connected  with  the  poor  of  the  parish.  Of  course 
Adele  always  appeared  at  such  times  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. Then  once,  when  out  riding  near  the  Manor, 
George's  home,  Mrs.  Charlton  remembered  that  Mrs. 
Foster  had  been  very  successful  in  the  culture  of  a  certain 
plant ;  and  being  very  anxious  of  securing  some,  and  the 
knowledge  of  the  proper  mode  of  rearing,  she  called  to  ask 
the  favor  of  Mr.  Foster. 

Of  course  he  insisted  that  Mrs.  Charlton  should  enter, 
and  partake  of  the  hospitalities  of  his  home. 

Then  for  the  first  time  did  the  thought  of  an  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  the  final  success  of  her  plan  present 
itself. 

Amy  had  been  regarded  by  this  worthy  lady  as  a  child. 
B  dependent,  and  by  no  means  to  be  dreaded  as  a  rival. 
For  eighteen  months,  during  the  time  of  Mrs.  Foster's 
extreme  illness,  and  since  her  death.  Amy  had  been  very 
much  secluded.  When,  occasionally,  she  had  been  seen 
by  callers,  they  had  noticed  her  but  little.  But  it  seemed 
to  Mrs.  Charlton  that  by  magic  the  child  had  become  a 
V3ry  beautiful  and  really  charming  woman. 

Everything  was  in  perfect  order  at  the  Manor,  and  a 
delicate  and  tempting  lunch  served,  at  which  Amy  pre- 
sided with  such  quiet  dignity,  that,  to  use  a  very  trite 
expression,  Mrs.  Charlton  was  considerably  "  taken  aback." 

In  her  expectations,  Amy  was  to  be  dreaded.  The 
rector's  wife  wanted  some  advice  in  this  dilemma,  and  so 
she  sought  the  assistance  of  Mrs.  Fairfield,  a  very  hand- 
.iKxme  widow,  but  not  young  enough  to  be  fr^ced  as  a  rival 


WnO  WAS    TO    BE    BBIDE?  181 

of  Adele's,  she  thought  The  widow  was  shrewd,  and  pos- 
sessed of  quick  wit. 

Quite  forty,  but  looking  much  younger,  she  had  been 
thinking  much  of  Mr.  Foster  lately,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion how  well  it  would  be  for  him  if  he  would  take  a 
wife;  and  that  she  herself  could  be  the  one  to  make  him 
very  happy.  So,  when  Mrs.  Charlton  came,  the  widow 
joined  with  her  very  heartily  in  the  idea  that  Mr.  Foster 
ought  certainly  to  be  secured ;  and  little  Amy  must  surely 
be  gotten  out  of  the  way.  Now,  when  the  thought  of 
getting  rid  of  the  orphan  girl  came  to  Mrs.  Charlton's 
mind,  she  never  for  an  instant  thought  of  doing  her  any 
harm.  But  the  widow  made  up  her  mind  to  get  her  away 
at  any  risk.  So  there  was  a  little  word,  a  very  significant 
look,  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  given  to  Mrs.  Archer,  the 
mother  of  five  daughters,  ranging  from  twenty  to  thirty- 
five. 

This  kind  woman,  too,  had  been  considering  very  deeply 
the  lonely  condition  of  young  Foster,  and  thinking  how 
she  would  like  to  be  a  mother  to  him,  when  Mrs.  Fairfield 
opened  her  eyes  to  the  truth — which  was  a  shame  to  the 
parish — that  he  was  not  a  lonely  man.  This  matter  must 
be  attended  to  immediately.  And  so  it  went  around  and 
abroad,  until  the  rector's  wife  said : 

"  My  dear,  every  one  is  talking  of  it !  I  never  dreamed 
of  the  impropriety,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  until  every  one 
saw  and  spoke  of  it." 

"Oh,  certainly;  I  must  go  immediately  and  talk  to 
young  Foster  on  the  impropriety  of  his  course,"  said 
worthy  Mr.  Charlton. 

And  off  he  went  that  very  hour.  And  after  considerable 
hesitation — for,  when  getting  face  to  face  with  the  noble, 
grave-looking  young  man,  the  rector  found  it  a  most 
difficult  and  delicate  matter  to  approach  a  subject  thai 


182  WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BKIDE? 

,  would  call  in  question  the  actions  of  one  so  worthy  of 
respect — he  ventured  to  tell  the  object  of  his  visit. 

**  What !  not  keep  Amy,  my  child,  my  little  sister,  with 
me?  Send  her  away!"  exclaimed  George  Foster,  with 
intense  amazement. 

"  My  young  firiend,  you  know,  except  by  your  mother'g 
adoption,  she  is  neither.  For  her  own  good,  you  should 
do  so.  Can  you  not  think  that  her  fair  name  may  suffer, 
should  this  assumed  relationship  be  continued  ?  Durii^ 
your  respected  mother's  life,  it  was  of  course  perfectiy  right 
and  proper ;  but — " 

"  But,  sir,  my  mother  bound  me  by  a  sacred  promise 
never  to  forsake  Amy, — ^to  consider  her  happiness  always. 
Send  her  from  me  I  How  ?  Where  ?  To  whom  ?  She  is 
without  friends  I "  said  George  Foster,  in  an  agitated  voice. 

"  Procure  her  a  position  as  teacher,  or  seamstress — soma 
respectable  employment  away  from  the  neighborhood.  I 
will  aid  you  in  this  dviy;  you  should  consider  it,"  answered 
the  rector. 

"I  cannot — I  cannot.  My  promise  forbids  it.  Poor 
fittle  Amy }  Why  could  not  these  people  let  her  alone  ? 
Poor  innocent  child  I  How  can  I  shield  her  from 
them?" 

"  Give  them  no  cause  to  think  wrong  of  either  her  or 
you,  my  friend.  Now,  if  you  were  married,  your  wife's 
jMresence  would,  of  course,  render  Amy's  presence  perfectly 
proper." 

"Why,  Amy  is  not  the  only  woman  in  my  house.  My 
housekeeper,  a  worthy,  aged  and  Christian  woman,  is 
with  us." 

"  My  dear  friend,  she  is  your  colored  servant,  bound  to 
do  your  bidding.    Her  presence  is  not  sufficient." 

"  Marry  ?  I  have  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.  And 
yoa  say  I  must  either  send  Amy  off  or  bn*^  a  wife  her»< 


WHO    WAS     TO    BE    BKIDE?  183 

• 

that  she  may  remain,  and  evil  tongues  be  stopped  ? "  said 
George,  bitterly. 

"  My  young  friend,  you  are  excited  and  unjust,  I  think. 
There  are  certain  duties  we  owe  to  society,"  said  the 
rector. 

"Well,  well,  to  shield  poor  little  Amy,  I  will  marry. 
But  who  shall  I  marry  ?  " 

"  There  are  many  lovely  and  most  suitable  ladies  in  our 
congregation,  several  of  whom  you  are  already  acquainted 
with." 

And  the  good  man  proceeded  to  do  full  justice  to  the 
virtues  of  several  ladies,  among  whom  were  the  Misses 
Archer  and  Mrs.  Fairfield.  Now  the  one  uppermost  in 
his  thoughts  he  never  mentioned.  But  when  about  taking 
his  leave  he  urged  the  young  man  to  come  to  see  him, 
saying : 

"  Drop  in  often.  Mrs.  Charlton  is  very  much  interested 
in  you.  We  shall  be  very  happy  in  aiding  you  in  your 
very  wise  conclusion." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  think  of  this  matter.  You  shall 
know  of  my  decision  before  long." 

"Amy,  my  child,  come  here.  Sit  down.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,"  said  George  Foster,  the  next  morning  after  break- 
fast, when  he  drew  Amy  into  the  library,  and  tenderly 
seated  her  beside  him.  "Amy,  I  am  going  to  be  married," 
he  said. 

"  Married  ?  "  she  gasped,  turning  very  pale. 

"Yes,  little  sister,  married.  Don't  you  want  your 
brother  to  marry  ?  You  surely  wish  him  the  happiness 
of  other  men  ?  Otherwise,  Amy,  I  might  grow  sour,  cross 
and  generally  disagreeable,  as  it  is  said  most  old  bachelors 
are—" 

"  No,  no ;  that  could  never  be  with  you,**  Amy  said,  in  a 
voice  which  was  full  of  tears* 


384  WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BRIDE? 

"  Well,  well;  perhaps  not.  But  one  had  better  be  on  tha 
safe  side,  Amy.  You  will  fix  up  the  place,  little 
girl — make  it  bright  and  pretty  for  my  wife,  will  you 
not?" 

"  Oh,  yei,  yes,"  whispered  Amy,  and  then  sank  weeping 
in  her  brother's  arms. 

"There,  there;  I  see  how  it  is.  Sisters  must  alwaya 
suffer  in  giving  up  their  brothers  for  others  to  love,  I 
think.  And  perhaps  you  fear  you  may  not  be  happy 
with  my  wife,  Amy?" 

Only  a  sob  answered  him. 

"  Rest  assured,  my  child,  I  will  bring  no  one  here  who 
will  in  any  way  mar  your  happiness.  My  wife  will,  I  am 
sure,  be  acceptable  to  you.  Only  such  a  one  will  I  bring 
here." 

Amy  went  about  making  the  place  beautiful.  But  her 
Door  little  heart  was  very  sad.  Often  she  stole  away  and 
wept  long  and  bitterly.  On  one  occasion,  when  George 
returned  home  from  town  much  earlier  than  usual,  he 
stepped  noiselessly  into  the  drawing-room,  and  found 
Amy,  with  her  head  buried  in  the  cushion  of  the  sofa, 
weeping  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

He  let  her  weep  on  until  she  grew  calmer,  and  whea 
about  to  go  and  taLc  to  her,  and  find  out,  if  possible,  the 
cause  of  her  sorrow,  he  was  arrested  by  hearing  her  say : 

"  Can  she  love  him  as  I  ?  No,  no,  I  am  sure  not,  for 
others  share  her  love.  She  has  friends,  while  I  give  all  to 
him.  No  one  else  in  the  world  I  love.  Father,  mother, 
sister,  brother — aye,  more  than  all  these  is  he  to  me.  And 
I  only  share  his  love  with  her.  After  a  while  it  will  grow 
Jess  and  less,  I  suppose." 

George  Foster  stepped  back ;  a  new  light  had  fallen  upon 
him.  He  never  dreamed  this  timid,  gentle,  quiet  girl 
loved  him,  or  could  love  any  one  thus.    Then  he  knew 


WHO     WAS    TO    BE    BRIDE?  185 

li^hat  a  trial  it  would  be  to  her — the  presence  of  any  other 
-woman  possessing  his  love. 

How  should  he  comfort  her  ?  How  reconcile  her  to  the 
Tvoman  he  had  selected  as  his  wife  ? 

He  waited  on  the  piazza  until  she  came  out,  a  half  hour 
after,  and  then,  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  he  walked 
with  her  to  the  family  graveyard,  and  there,  standing 
beside  his  mother's  tomb,  he  told  her  why  it  was  he  had 
first  decided  to  take  a  wife.  With  great  caution  and  del- 
icacy he  told  her  of  the  rector's  visit. 

"  So  you  see,  my  child,  for  your  welfare  alone  I  deter- 
mined to  marry,"  he  said.  "  Your  happiness  was  my  first 
thought.  But,  Amy,  after  I  had  picked  out  my  wife,  and 
I  knew  more  of  her,  I  found  out  how  very  much  my  own 
happiness  was  concerned.  The  woman  I  have  grown  to 
love  is  one  I  am  sure  all  will  love  who  know  her.  And 
BOW  I  feel  how  terribly  I  should  sufier  if  I  should  lose 
her." 

Much  more  he  said,  untU  she  grew  very  calm  and  con* 
tent.  In  his  happiness  she  would  find  hers.  And  so  she 
went  on  with  her  work  more  cheerfully,  making  things 
beautiful  for  George's  wife ;  as  ever  doing  his  bidding. 

"  Trust  me  and  be  at  peace,"  he  said.  And  so  she  did, 
and  was.  Much  of  George's  time  was  divided  between  the 
lector's  home,  the  widow  Fairfield's,  and  Mrs.  Archer's. 

Happy  was  little  Mrs.  Charlton  in  the  thought  of  her 
final  success.  Knowing  Adele,  George  must  surely  grow 
to  love  her.  She  told  of  her  hopes  to  the  widow  Fairfield, 
who  smilingly  congratulated  her  friend,  thinking  all  the 
time: 

"  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  little  Adele  has  reason  for  hopes! 
and  how  often  he  comes  to  see  me  I " 

But  the  widow  was  a  little  disconcerted  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  visiting  Mrs.  Archer,  to  meet  Mr.  Foster,  and 


186  Wno    WAS    TO    BE    BRIDE? 

hear  from  the  exultant  mother  that  he  came  very  often. 
Yet  she  could  not  decide  which  of  her  girls  was  the  chosen 
one. 

Time  passed  on  until  a  month  had  elapsed,  the  man- 
ceuvring  aunt,  mamma,  and  widow  thinking  that  surely 
every  coming  of  Mr.  Foster  must  disclose  the  object  of  hia 
visits,  when  the  rector's  wife  was  very  much  astonished  to 
hear  from  her  husband  that  George  Foster  was  to  be  mar- 
ried the  next  day ;  but  to  whom  he  knew  not,  as  the  gen- 
tleman declared  his  intention  of  keeping  his  own  counsel 
until  the  time  of  the  ceremony.  So  poor  Mrs.  Charlton, 
although  she  could  not  decide  who  his  bride  was  to  be, 
knew  full  well  it  was  not  Adele — one  of  the  Archer  girls 
most  likely.  Little  she  thought  of  the  widow  Fairfield, 
whom  her  good  husband  declared  the  lucky  one.  His 
belief  was  founded  on  the  fact  of  his  having  frequently 
met  Mr.  Foster  at  her  home,  and  confirmed  by  that  lady's 
entire  change  of  dress,  she  having  thrown  off  all  vestige 
of  mourning  and  appeared  in  colors  again. 

The  next  day,  during  the  morning  service,  the  rector 
announced  that,  after  the  conclusion  of  divine  worship, 
there  would  be  a  marriage  ceremony  performed  in  the 
church,  and  the  congregation  were  invited  to  be  present. 
Who  the  happy  ones  were  was  unknown  or  suspected, 
save  by  the  rector  and  his  family. 

The  services  were  over,  the  members  of  the  congregation 
sat  waiting  and  watching  for  the  entrance  of  the  bride  and 
groom,  when  George  Foster  arose  from  his  seat  in  the 
choir,  walked  down  the  steps  and  up  the  aisle  to  his 
mother's  pew,  from  wLsnce  he  gently  drew  a  little  figure, 
and  proceeded  with  her  up  to  the  altar  and  stood  before 
the  rector.  The  surprise  of  the  good  folks  may  be  imag- 
ined. It  was  a  wonderful  act  of  self-control,  which  pre- 
vented the  exclamations  of  such.    A  few  moments  more, 


WHO    WAS    TO    BE    BBIDE?  187 

and  little  Amy's  future  welfare  was  so  well  considered, 
that  no  longer  a  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  her  continuance 
in  George  Foster's  home  existed.  For  still  the  minister's 
voice  was  sounding  in  their  ears,  repeating  the  words, 
"  What  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Mrs.  Charlton  was  the  first  to  come  forward  and  offer 
her  congratulations.  She  was  sorely  disappointed  in  tho 
result  of  her  plans ;  but  it  was  her  duty,  as  a  Christian,  to 
bear  it  patiently,  and  as  the  rector's  wife,  to  be  affable  and 
agreeable  to  all  her  husband's  charge.  A  few  more  came 
up  with  sincere  and  kind  wishes,  and  some  of  Mrs. 
Foster's  old  friends  accepted  George's  invitation  to  return 
with  them  to  the  manor. 

The  next  day  the  happy  pair  left  for  a  northern  tour. 
During  their  absence,  cards  of  invitation  were  sent  out  for 
a  reception  on  their  return. 

The  disappointed  ones  declared,  at  first,  their  intention 
of  neither  calling  on  nor  countenancing  George  Foster's 
wife.  But,  upon  second  thought  and  mature  deliberation, 
they  came  to  the  conclusion  they  could  not  well  afford  to 
insult  or  alienate  the  wealthiest,  and  one  of  the  most 
respectable  men  of  their  number ;  and  so  Amy's  wedding 
reception  was  largely  attended. 

And  George  Foster  ever  felt  thankful  to  the  kind, 
thoughtful  ladies  whose  plans  for  his  welfare  had  resulted 
BO  happily,  although  confident  that  Amy's  future  good  or 
ill  was  of  little  consequence  to  them.  Still  he  forgave 
them,  remembering  not  the  intention,  only  the  result— -thQit 
defeat  and  his  victory,  in  securing  the  greatest  boon  from 
Heaven  to  man,  a  true  and  loving  wife. 


WHAT  THE  FUTURE  MIGHT  BRINft 

BY  FBANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

'*  rMVE  him  to  me,  heavenly  Father!  Have  mercy  I 
vT  Pity  my  loneliness,  and  give  him  to  me !  My  all  I 
my  only  one !  "  Mary  Ashton  prayed  on,  repeating  again 
the  cry,  "  Give  him  to  me !  "  She  could  not  say,  "  Thy 
will,  not  mine,  be  done !  "  No ;  she  could  only  plead  for 
the  one  great  boon,  his  precious  life. 

He  was  her  all — "  the  widow's  son."  As  she  still  knelt 
beside  him,  the  look  of  suffering  passed  away ;  the  painful 
breathing  ceased ;  he  sank  into  a  sweet,  refreshing  sleep. 
The  mother  felt  that  new  life  was  given  him — he  would 
etill  be  hers. 

Her  prayer  was  granted.  He  grew  rapidly  in  strength. 
Soon  her  pride,  her  darling,  raised  as  it  were  from  the  dead, 
was  again  making  the  house  merry  with  his  infant  glee. 

Years  passed  on.  Herbert's  will  growing  stronger  ;  his 
more  and  more  exacting  nature  at  times  forcing  a  feeling 
of  uneasiness  in  his  mother's  heart.  Yet  she  would  seek 
to  drive  it  hence  with  the  more  cheering  thought,  "He 
will  grow  more  considerate  and  manly  in  a  few  years." 

Gifted  with  the  brightest  talents,  he  mastered  with 
perfect  ease  his  various  studies  at  school.  The  proud, 
fond  mother  pictured  to  herself  his  brilliant  career  in 
the  future.  "  But  no ;  he  would  not  strive  for  fortune 
or  fame.  There  was  no  need  of  his  slaving  for  a  livings 
His  mother  had  means  abundant,"  he  said. 

am 


WHAT    THE     FUTURE    MIGHT    BRING.     189 

Time  rolled  on.  In  his  early  manhood  he  won  tho 
heart  of  a  beautil'ul  girl.  Carefully  had  Mary  concealed 
his  many  faults,  that  any  other  than  a  mother  might  have 
termed  vices. 

"  Rose  will  win  him  from  such.  He  loves  her  so  truly, 
and  she  is  so  charming,  he  cannot  resist  her  efforts,"  Mary 
murmured. 

Rose's  low,  sweet  voice  was  whispering  in  her  ear :  "  Oh, 
what  a  happy  girl !  What  a  happy,  happy  little  family 
we  are,  and  must  always  be  1 " 

Weeks  rolled  by — months,  only  a  few,  when  the  mother 
felt  keenly  how  terribly  mistaken  she  had  been  in  the 
course  she  had  pursued  with  her  boy. 

When  gently  she  remonstrated  with  him,  his  cruel, 
heartless  reply  pierced,  to  the  very  quick,  the  heart  already 
ecarred  by  his  many  wounds  : 

"  Thank  yourself  for  what  I  am.  You  have  made  me 
so." 

Daily  she  saw  the  loving,  confiding  woman — the  Rose 
©nee  blooming  so  brightly — growing  paler ;  the  young  life 
blighted  by  her  son's  cruel  nature. 

His  reckless  extravagance  drew  heavily  on  the  mother's 
once  ample  means.  Worse  and  worse  it  grew,  until  she 
had  nothing  left  but  the  merest  pittance.  From  the  home 
of  luxury,  they  went  to  one  where  only  the  strictest 
economy  must  reign.  But  Herbert  still  dressed  elegantly ; 
his  cigars  were  the  best ;  his  wines  old  and  pure.  Yet  he 
earned  no  money,  the  mother  knew.  How  did  he  obtain 
them?  A  great  fear  entered  her  heart.  Was  he  a. 
gambler  ?  Oh,  if  that  were  all !  It  came  at  last — the  last 
drop  in  the  cup  of  bitterness,  which  wife  and  mother 
both  must  drain. 

Herbert  was  arrested  on  the  charge  of  forgery.  The 
last  few  remaining  articles,  remembrances  of  former  days. 


190      WHAT    THE    FUTURE    MIGHT    BRING. 

were  disposed  of,  to  raise  money  with  which  the  counsel^ 
one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in  the  State,  was  obtained.  Oh, 
the  agony  of  those  days  during  which  the  trial  was  pend- 
ing— the  terrible  suspense !  At  length  the  case  was  givea 
to  the  jury.  At  home,  praying  for  their  loved  one,  waited 
the  wife  and  mother,  to  know  the  result.  Soon  it  came — 
conviction — with  the  terrible  sentence,  five  years  impris- 
onment in  the  State-prison.  A  few  days  more,  and  they 
must  bid  him  adieu. 

The  day  of  parting  came.  Oh,  who  can  describe  their 
anguish  ?  Rose  was  borne  insensible  from  his  cell.  With 
her  fond  arms  clinging  about  him,  the  mother  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  bear  this  for  you,  my  boy  I  my  boy ! 
Willingly  would  I  die  to  save  you  I  " 

The  miserable  man,  at  length  brought  to  his  senses, 
pressed  the  trembling  form  to  his  bosom,  and  said,  with 
emotion : 

"  I  know  you  would,  my  mother.  Oh,  would  that  I  had 
died  in  my  infancy !  Why,  why  did  you  pray  for  my 
life  ?  You  see  what  a  curse  it  has  been,  to  all  who  love 
me!     Good-by;  they  call  me." 

Again  she  felt  his  arms  about  her,  and  witli  a  wild, 
despairing  cry,  she  started  up,  eobbing  forth  the  words  • 

"  Why  !  yes,  oh,  why  ?  " 

She  looked  about  her.  The  light  was  turned  very  low, 
but  then,  before  her,  as  in  years  long  gone,  she  could  see 
her  little  Herbert  Ij'ing  ill,  dying.  She  passed  her  hands 
again  and  again  across  her  brow,  and  then  gently  on  the 
pale  Httle  face  beside  her.  What  was  it  ?  A  dream !  all  a 
dream !  Those  long  years  of  anxious  care  and  final 
anguish  had  been  passed  only  in  dream-land. 

Weary  and  exhausted,  she  had  fallen  asleep.  A  blessed 
Bleep  it  was !  Through  which  she  had  gained  a  resignation 
to  His  wilL    Then  she  could,  and  did  kneel  and  pray. 


WHAT    THE    FUTURE    MIGHT    BRING.      191 

**Not  mine,  but  Thy  will  be  done."  Oh,  yes ;  better  could 
Bhe  give  him  back  to  God  in  his  innocence  and  purity,  and 
think  of  him  as  waiting  her  coming  above,  than  hold  him 
back  to  earth  to  become,  perhaps,  as  she  had  dreamed. 

A  feeble  little  cry  fell  upon  her  ear : 

"  Mamma,  Herbie's  well  now.  Nothing  hurts  him. 
Look,  look  I  mamma.  Beauty  babies  call  Herbi^.  Kiss, 
quick,  mamma ;  and  say  Herbie  may  go — say  quick ! " 

His  face  was  raised,  eagerly  gazing  upward;  his  tiny 
hands  feebly  lifted.  Again  his  eyes  sought  his  mother's 
with  an  appealing  glance,  and  she  strained  her  ear  to 
catch  his  words  so  low. 

"  Herbie,  go,  please  I "  He  seemed  only  waiting  her 
consent.  She  caught  him  to  her  bosom  in  a  last,  long 
embrace,  and  with  his  dear  face  pressed  close  to  hers,  she 
breathed,  only  heard  by  Herbert  and  God : 

"  Go,  my  darling." 

Again  the  sweet  lips  tried  to  whisper;  but  only  the 
words,  "  Mamma, — come  I — a  while,"  reached  his  mother's 
ear,  and  little  Herbert's  pure  spirit  had  joined  the  angels 
waiting. 

She  laid  the  little  lifeless  form  tenderly  from  her,  and 
her  friends  wondered  how,  so  calmly.  They  had  dreaded 
80  much  the  parting  moment.  Yes ;  calmly  she  bore  it. 
She  knew  a  more  bitter  parting  might  be  felt  than  that 
which  was  only  for  a  "  little  while."  She  knew  it  wag 
that  which  Herbie  tried  to  say : 

"  Mamma  will  come  too,  after  a  little  while." 


TEMPTED. 


BT  FRANCES  HEK8HAW  BADEN. 

*^"]l/riSS  WARNER!" 

jjJL  She  turned,  clenched  tightly  in  her  fingers  the 
"bank-notes,  and  with  a  face  deadly  pale  she  gazed  on  the 
•woman  beside  her. 

"  Miss  Warner !  The  trustworthy,  the  confidential  clerk  I 
The  betrothed  wife—" 

"  Stop !  oh  stop !    Let  me  tell  you !     Hear  me !  " 

— "  The  betrothed  wife  of  the  junior  partner  of  the  firm 
of  Fairleigh,  Noble  &  Co.,  to  be  caught  at — " 

"  For  God's  sake,  have  mercy !  I  am  not  doing  as  you 
would  say.  I  am  only  borrowing  this  until  I  can  return 
it,  when  it  is  really  due  me ! " 

"  Of  course !  But  if  it  was  any  one  but  Miss  Warner — 
I,  or  the  boy  who  sweeps  this  place — what  would  it  be?  " 

"  Oh  I  you  have  no  mercy  I  You  hate  me,  I  know,  and 
•will  not  hear  the  truth.  You  know  I  am  incapable  of  such 
wrong.  But,  oh  1  you  will  tell  it  I  Yes,  yes ;  I  am  in 
your  power.  Oh,  why  was  I  so  weak  as  to  yield  to  hia 
pleading  ?  Why  should  he  not  have  borne  the  result  of 
his  own  wrong-doing?  Listen,  Juha  Garnet.  You  shall 
hear.  Though  you  will  feign  disbelief,  in  your  heart,  you 
laiow  I  am  speaking  the  truth. 

"  When  my  mother,  dying,  bade  me  kneel  by  her  side, 
and  vow  to  love,  protect  and  shield  her  boy,  I  did  it> 
knowing  full  well  it  would  require  long  ej¥*«rance,  priva- 
(192) 


TEMPTED.  193 

tion,  and  possibly  the  sacrifice  of  my  dearest  hopes.  But 
I  never  dreamed  it  could  possibly  bring  even  a  suspicion 
of  dishonesty  upon  me.  Oh,  mother,  win  for  me  pity, 
mercy,  guidance ! " 

The  miserable  girl  dropped  her  head,  in  her  anguish,  on 
the  desk,  and  sobbed. 

Coldly,  cruelly  Julia  Garnet  stood,  unmoved  by  the 
piteous  moans  of  the  girl  she  was  torturing.  A  triumphant 
light  gleaned  from  her  small  black  eyes,  and  with  a  sneer- 
ing expression  curling  her  lips,  she  said : 

"Really,  this  is  guite  dramatic  I  You  have  mistaken 
your  vocation.  Miss  Warner." 

The  girl  raised  her  head,  wiped  from  her  face  the  tears 
— ^that  pale,  beautiful  face,  with  the  soul-lit  deep  gray  eyes, 
the  clear,  smooth  brow  so  full  and  broad-formed ;  such  a 
Btriking  contrast  to  the  dark  one  beside  it,  whose  every 
feature  was  so  sharp  and  hard;  no  softening  line  about 
the  compressed  lips,  to  bring  one  thought  of  hope  to  the 
poor  girl's  heart.     She  knew  she  was  doomed,  and  said : 

"  'Tis  useless  to  tell  you  more  of  my  trials.  You  will 
have  no  mercy.  You  cannot  feel  a  sister's  devotion.  You 
only  know  your  own  wishes,  and  seek  only  your  own 
ends.  Speak  at  once!  What  do  you  intend  I  shall  do? 
T  know  you  now,  Julia  Garnet.  You  have  been  my 
enemy  since — " 

"  Yes ;  since  you  won  the  love  of  Harry  Noble,  I  have 
hated  you.  And  what  think  you  his  father,  who  even 
now  looks  with  little  favor  on  your  engagement — what 
■will  he  say  to  his  son's  betrothed  having  been  caught  in 
i— well,  if  the  truth  is  so  terrible  to  your  ear,  I  will  say — a 
family  failing,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Speak,  and  end  your  torture  I " 

"  You  will  resign  your  position  here,  for  any  cause  you 
may  choose  to  assign.    Put  back  that  mone^.  if  you  wish. 


194  TEMPTED. 

now.  I  will  let  you  have  the  same  amount  You  can 
xeturn  it  when  you  have  obtained  so  much  to  spare. 
You  will  readily  obtain  employment  in  Blake  &  Co.'s." 

Tying  on  her  bonnet,  with  a  calmness  that  would  have 
l)een  more  touching  to  a  heart  that  could  feel,  than  the 
distress  and  tears  of  a  short  time  before,  Dora  Warner  lefl 
the  store. 

An  hour  after,  a  pleasant,  boyish  voice  called  out: 

*'  Dora,  where  are  you  ?    Have  you  got  it  ?  " 

*ahave." 

*'  Oh,  you  darling  sister !  I'll  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  you ;  indeed  I  will.     I  am  so  glad !  so  relieved  I " 

The  little  room  was  not  cheerful  as  usual,  on  his  return; 
the  lamp  not  lit,  the  fire  not  burning  brightly  in  the  grate^ 
everything  so  cold  and  dark ;  and  she,  the  life  and  light 
that  used  to  welcome  his  coming,  sat  with  bowed  head  on 
the  little  lounge,  her  bonnet  and  cloak  still  on. 

Thinking  she  was  tired,  and  had  been  late  getting  home^ 
Willie  began  to  stir  around,  to  make  things  more  com- 
Ibrtable. 

His  heart  was  so  filled  with  gratitude  to  his  sister  for 
eaving  him,  he  did  not  think  of  the  disappointment  in  not 
finding  the  nice  little  supper  waiting  his  coming. 

Lighting  the  lamp,  he  turned  to  look  at  Dora. 

"Dora,  are  you  tired?  Let  me  take  your  wrappings,*' 
lie  said. 

She  raised  her  head — his  eyes  fell  on  her  fece.  He 
sprang  forward,  caught  her  hand,  and  sank  on  his  kn«e 
beside  her. 

"Dora!  Dora  I  sister,  what  is  it?  You  are  ill?  Speak 
to  me  ?  "  he  pleaded,  gazing  wildly  into  her  face — ^yester- 
day so  beautiful,  loving  and  hopeful;  now  so  haggard, 
Weary  and  despairing.    "  What  is  it  ?    Oh,  tell  me,  sister  I  * 

She  put  out  hot  hand,  drew  him  to  her,  and  said: 


TEMPTED.  19S 

**  Love  me,  Willie.    I  have  no  one  else  to  love  me  now." 

When,  with  his  head  bowed  in  her  lap,  he  heard  of  the 
eacrifice  his  sister  had  made  to  shield  him,  the  boy's  heart 
was  awakened  to  the  full  appreciation  of  his  own  wrong 
and  its  result. 

He  had  been  drawn  into  bad  company,  tempted  to  visit 
gambling-houses,  and  finally  to  try  his  luck,  which,  at 
times,  was  so  successful  as  to  lure  him  on.  Thinking  he 
could  soon  return  it,  he  took,  from  time  to  time,  small 
sums  of  money  from  the  store,  of  which  he  was  the  book- 
keeper. He  had,  up  to  a  short  time  before  the  opening  of 
our  story,  returned  the  amount  before  the  loss  was 
discovered.  But  fate  turned  against  him.  After  having 
taken  a  much  larger  sum  than  usual,  his  losses  were 
continual.  The  principal  of  the  firm  had  been  absent  for 
several  weeks,  but  was  expected  back  the  next  day ;  and 
Willie  knew  the  books  would  be  carefully  examined,  and 
the  discrepancies  surely  discovered.  So  it  was  he  sought 
his  sister  for  help,  confessed  his  error,  and  besought  her  to 
save  him  from  the  suspicion  of  dishonesty. 

"  For  me  you  suffer  thus  ?  Oh  1  Dora,  I  cannot  permit 
it.  I  will  go  to  Harry  Noble,  tell  him  aU.  To  my 
employer — " 

"  No,  no,  Willie.  It  is  too  late  now  for  that.  Harry 
Noble,  I  know,  would  feel  for  us  and  help  us.  Your 
employer  might  forgive  and  trust  you  again.  But  Julia 
Garnet  has  a  power  over  me  that  she  wiU  never  resign. 
Her  heart  knows  nothing  of  pity.  Sne  would  use  her 
knowledge  to  the  utmost  of  her  evil  will.  Nothing  can 
change  her  determination.  Nothing  but  God's  work  can 
move  her  hard,  cruel  heart.  It  is  meet  that  I  should 
suffer,  WiUie ;  and  you  too,  my  dear.  We  have  both  erred 
very  much.  We  did  not  mean  to  be  dishonest,  yet  it- 
might  have  resulted  so.    Many  things  might  have  inter- 


196  TEMPTED. 

vened  to  prevent  the  return  of  the  money.  Oh !  think 
how  narrowly  you  have  escaped!  Will  this  sorrow  of 
mine  call  you  back  from  the  fearful  path  into  which  you 
have  strayed  ?  If  so,  I  am  content.  Give  me  this  hope 
to  cheer  my  dreariness,  Willie !  " 

"  Dora !  sister  !  darling !  Yes,  yes,  hope  and  pray  for 
me.  With  God's  blessing  I  will  not  give  your  loving, 
devoted  heart  an  additional  pang.  I  vow  here  on  my 
knees,  before  heaven,  to  be  once  more  worthy  of  your  love. 
And  I  will  seek  God's  forgiveness.  You  will  not  suffer 
long.  I  feel,  I  know,  mercy  will  be  shown  us.  That  cruel 
girl's  power  must  give  way  !  " 

All  was  over.  The  severest  trial  of  all  was  past.  Dora 
had  seen  Harry  Noble  for  the  last  time,  she  believed. 
After  receiving  her  note,  giving  him  back  his  plighted 
faith,  Harry  sought  her  presence,  and  would  not  go  until 
he  had  seen  her,  and  from  her  lips  he  had  heard  the  words, 
*'  I  wish  to  be  free." 

He  could  obtain  no  explanation.  But  from  varioua 
hints,  looks,  and  insinuations  from  Julia  Garnet,  Harry's 
mind  was  filled  with  the  idea  that  Dora  had  been  trifling 
•with  him  until  she  found  a  more  acceptable  suitor.  And, 
indeed,  the  one  had  been  pointed  out.  Harry  knew  thcvt 
one  had  shown  a  decided  preference  for  Dora;  and  so, 
believing  her  false,  he  strove  to  drive  her  from  his  heart. 

Months  passed  by.  The  money  was  returned  to  Julia 
Garnet,  and  Willie  was  comforting  his  sister  for  her 
sacrifice. 

Rumor  whispered  that  Harry  Noble  and  Miss  Garnet 
were  engaged,  and  of  the  gratification  it  gave  Harry's 
father,  who  had  yielded  to  the  wiles  of  the  scheming  girl, 
and  grown  very  fond  of  her.  Still  time  rolled  on,  and 
Dora  wondered  why  the  marriage  did  not  take  place.  She 
had  never  seen.  Harry  since  the  day  she  sent  him  from  her. 


TEMPTED.  197 

She  nad  studiously  avoided  him,  and  strove  hard  to  forget 
him ;  or  when  she  thought  of  him,  it  must  be  only  as  the 
future  husband  of  another.  By  continual  acts  of  charity, 
mercy  and  kindness,  she  won  partial  forgetfulness  of  her 
own  sorrows.  Those  who  suffered  came  to  her  for 
comfort. 

Three  long,  weary  years  of  waiting,  with  alternating 
hopes  and  fears,  had  past,  and  Julia  Garnet  had  not  yet 
gained  her  heart's  desire.  Although  Harry  Noble  was 
often,  and  only  seemed  to  care  to  be  with  her,  still  he  had 
never  told  her  he  loved  her,  nor  asked  her  to  be  his 
wife. 

Why?  Because  his  heart  was  still  true  to  his  love  for 
Dora ;  and  the  falsity  of  his  suspicions  was  proved  by  her 
rejection  of  many  others  who  offered  her  their  love. 

Once  more  he  went  to  her,  and  asked : 

"  Dora,  will  you  come  to  me  ?  Will  you  not  reward  all 
these  years  of  constancy  ?     I  love  you  only,  Dora  I  " 

"  I  cannot,"  she  answered. 

"Why?  Why?    Tell  me  !  " 

"  Because,  better  than  my  own  life,  I  love  one — " 

What  more  she  would  have  said,  he  heard  not;  for, 
starting  up,  he  said  : 

"  Enough,  Dora.  May  you  be  happy.  I  will  go  now 
and  strive  to  be  grateful,  at  least,  to  one  who  I  know  has 
loved  me  long.  I  can  offer  her  a  poor  recompense  for 
years  of  devotion.     Farewell." 

He  was  gone,  and  poor  Dora  had  drained  to  the  very 
bottom  her  cup  so  overflowing  with  bitterness. 

"Oh!  when  will  this  weary  journey  be  over?  Pity, 
pity  me,  heavenly  Father ! "  she  sobbed. 

A  coming  step  fell  on  her  ear,  and  she  knew  Willie's 
■was  near.  And  her  heart  grew  calmer,  and  breathed  the 
grateful  prayei'" 


198  TEMPTED. 

"  Forgive  my  murmuring,  Father.  Through  my  sorrow 
I  have  gained  a  blessed  boon." 

Yes;  her  brother  had  kept  his  vow,  remaining  firm 
against  all  temptations. 

JuHa  Garnet  was  triumphant  at  last.  Her  marriage  was 
fixed  for  an  early  day.  But  when  only  two  days  remained 
before  the  time  for  which  she  had  so  long  hoped,  she  was 
Btricken  with  a  fever,  which  proved  to  be  of  a  fearful  and 
contagious  form. 

This  reached  Dora's  ear  while  visiting  a  sick  friend. 
Prom  the  attending  physician  came  the  intelligence,  and 
he  added : 

"I  fear  she  will  suffer.  All  have  fled  except  her 
mother,  who  is  too  feeble  herself  to  do  much  for  her.  Do 
you  know,  Miss  Warner,  of  a  competent  nurse  I  could 
obtain?" 

"  I  do.     I  will  find  one  immediately." 

******* 

"Hush  !  She  is  stirring.  She  will  awake  to  conscious* 
ness,"  said  the  good  doctor,  as  he  bent  over  the  prostrate 
form  of  the  sleeper,  who,  in  a  moment  after,  opened  her 
eyes,  looked  inquiringly  an  instant  into  his,  and  whis- 
pered : 

"  Have  I  been  asleep  ?  I  was  so  tired !  AVhen  Julia 
"Was  sleeping  so  sweetly,  I  must  have  lost  myself." 

A  pleasant  little  smile  was  on  the  doctor's  face,  when 
he  said  to  himself: 

"Yes,  my  dear.     You  lost  yourself  for  just  three  weeks." 

Wilhe  came  in  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  so  pale  an(l 
thin.  And  then  gradually  the  truth  was  given  to  her. 
Beside  the  sufiering  Julia  she  had  stayed,  despite  all  the 
entreaties  and  commands  of  her  brother  and  the  doctor. 
And  when  the  fearful  crisis  had  passed,  the  noble  girl's 
(Strength  failed,  and  she  too  was  stricken  with  the  same 


TEMPTED.  199 

fearful  fever.  Long  days  and  nights  'Willie  and  the  nurse 
watched  beside  her  couch,  and  Julia  Garnet  feebly  hovered 
near,  praying — for  she  could  pray  then — ^that  the  noble, 
suffering  girl  might  live. 

"  May  I  come  in,  doctor?  "  asked  a  voice  at  the  door,  so 
low  and  sweet  that  Dora  looked  up  with  surprise  as,  in 
answer  to  the  permission,  Julia  came  to  her  side — Julia, 
whose  sharp  eyes  were  softened,  and  glowed  with  a  new 
and  holy  Hght,  as  she  bent  over  and  whispered : 

"  Dear  Dora !     Good,  noble,  forgiving  Dora! " 

"  You  do  not  hate  me  now,  Julia  ?  Oh  I  I've  had  such, 
happy  dreams ! " 

"  I  love  you,  Dora !  But  there  is  one  who  loves  you 
better  than  I.  Your  future  life  shall  be  one  long,  happy- 
dream.  Look  at  me,  Dora.  Thank  God !  the  wicked  girl 
you  used  to  know  died  in  that  dreadful  fever,  and  you 
nursed  back  to  life  another,  a  better  one,  whose  aim  is  now 
only  to  prove  her  gratitude  to  God  and  you.  Harry- 
knows  all.  He  has  forgiven  me,  and  is  waiting  now  to 
gain  your  permission  to  come  to  you." 

"And  you — you  love  him.     No,  no ;  he  is  yours ! " 

"  Dora,  I  do  love  Harry  Noble ;  but  I  have  learned  to 
love  justice  better  than  him.  I  can  return  him  to  his  o-wa 
true  love  without  a  struggle ! " 

A  few  weeks  after  there  was  a  quiet  Httle  wedding,  when 
Julia  and  Willie  attended  the  happy  couple.  A  nine 
days  wondering  after  by  all  the  friends  and  acquaintances, 
no  two  of  whom  came  to  the  same  conclusion  about  the 
affair. 

To  only  four  persons  is  known  the  truth — ^the  tempta- 
tion, the  wrong,  the  suffering;  but  the  happy  conclusion 
of  which  fills  their  hearts  with  the  most  profound  gratitude 
to  Him  who  ever  smiles  on  and  blesses  the  erring  one's 
return. 


A  YERY  NATURAL  CONCLUSION. 

BY  FRANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

'^  pONGRATULATE  me,  Tom  1    I'm  the  happiest  fellow 

yJ  on  earth ! "  exclaimed  Harry  Ashfield,  his  face 
radiant  with  smiles,  as  he  accosted  his  friend  Tom 
Henly. 

"  I'm  delighted  to  see  you  so  happy,  old  fellow !  But 
tell  me ;  what  has  made  you  so  ?  "  said  Tom. 

"  Why,  there  is  but  one  thing  that  can  make  a  man  so 
happy — a  woman's  love !  I've  won  the  heart,  the  first 
pure  love  of  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world.  Lilly  Haywood 
promised  to  be  mine." 

"  Well,  you  are  blessed,  if  that  is  so.  For  Miss  Hay- 
wood is  very  lovely,  and  I'm  confident  you  will  be  very 
happy  with  her.  But  I  don't  know  about  your  being  the 
first  one  who  has  ever  made  an  impression  on  her  heart," 
said  Tom. 

"  I  do.  Why,  man,  she  is  just  from  school.  This  is  her 
first  season  in  society,  and  I've  been  near  her  all  the  time. 
Oh,  I  should  not  be  so  happy  otherwise.  I  could  not  be 
satisfied — in  fact,  I  would  not  want  to  win  a  heart  in 
which  love  for  another  had  ever  lived." 

"  Oh,  that  is  all  nonsense.  I'm  not  so  exacting.  Because 
a  girl  has  loved  once,  that's  no  reason  she  should  not  get 
over  it,  and  love  all  the  more  another.  But  did  you  never 
hear  Miss  Haywood  speak  of  her  very  dear  frieiu?  Will 
Fulton?  "said  Tom. 
''200) 


A    TERY    NATURAL    CONCLUSION.       201 

"  No,  never.  Why,  what  about  him  ?  "  Harry  asked,  a 
frown  gathering  on  his  fine  face. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  Tom  said,  a  comical  smile  playing  about 
his  lips. 

"  I  know  there  is  something.  And,  Tom,  I'd  like  to 
know  what  it  is  ?  " 

"  Tush,  man  !  Now  you're  jealous  and  uneasy  without 
good  cause.  But  I'll  tell  you,  for  fear  you  may  imagine 
something  really  of  account.  Will  Fulton  was  a  friend, 
and  a  very  dear  one,  of  Miss  Haywood,  when  she  was  at 
school.  I  know  they  corresponded  for  a  long  while: 
indeed,  I  was  under  the  impression  they  still  did.  I  re- 
member hearing  Miss  Haywood  tell  a  young  lady  friend 
that  she  did  not  believe  it  would  be  possible  for  her  to 
love  any  one  more  than  she  did  Willie  Fulton." 

'^You  heard  her  say  that?  How  strange  any  young  lady 
should  make  that  declaration  so  openly ! "  said  Harry. 

"  Well,  perhaps  she  did  not  know  I  was  in  hearing  dis- 
tance. I  certainly  heard  her  say  it.  But  I  feel  quite  sure, 
Harry,  if  she  has  promised  to  be  yours,  she  knows  novr 
that  it  is  possible  for  her  to  love  some  one  more;  and 
you  may  rest  easy :  she  loves  you  truly.  But,  dear  me, 
it  is  nine  o'clock.  I'm  due  at  the  office  now.  Good- 
morning.  " 

The  smiles  were  all  gone  from  Harry's  face  then,  and  his 
steps  not  near  so  light  as  fifteen  minutes  before.  Some- 
how the  sky  did  not  seem  so  blue,  or  the  sun  to  shine 
no  brightly,  as  before  he  met  Tom. 

"  She  should  have  told  me  of  this,"  he  thought.  Then 
he  would  try  to  console  himself  by  saying,  "  But  she  did 
not  know  me  then.     Why  should  I  worry?  " 

Still  he  could  not  feel  so  very  happy  as  he  did.  But  he 
tried  hard  to  seem  so,  when  he  met  Lilly  that  evening. 
Only  the  night  before  he  had  wo»  her  promise  to  be  his: 


202        A    VERY    NATURAL    CONCLUSION. 

and  really  he  felt  ashamed  to  let  any  jealous  thoughts,  oi 
doubts,  steal  in  and  cloud  the  first  days  of  their  engage- 
ment. 

A  few  days  after  the  above  conversation,  Lilly  was 
making  a  call  on  her  most  intimate  friend  Kate  Ralston. 
Lilly  had  confided  to  Kate  her  secret.  After  the  usual 
congratulations,  kisses  and  tears,  Kate  said : 

"  But  oh,  Lilly,  dear,  you'll  have  to  be  so  careful.  Harry 
is  awfully  jealous.  He'll  not  let  you  be  even  polite  to  any 
other  man,  or  love  anybody  but  himself.  Perhaps  youi 
mother  and  father  a  little  bit.  Now  my  lover  is  so  differ- 
ent. Tom  Henly  has  such  perfect  confidence  in  me,  I 
could  not  make  him  jealous  if  I  tried.  But  that  is  not  it. 
Confidence  has  nothing  to  do  with  it;  it  is  nature.  I 
don't  suppose  Harry  can  help  it." 

"  If  it  is  Harry's  nature,  he  must  try  and  change  it,  and 
have  perfect  confidence  in  me.  I  should  be  miserable,  if 
I  felt  I  was  being  watched  all  the  time  by  a  jealous  eye. 
Ill  cure  him,  I  guess." 

The  next  evening  Harry  sat  beside  Lilly,  holding  her 
Land  in  his,  when  his  eye  fell  on  a  very  beautiful  little 
ling. 

*'  Who  gave  you  that,  Lilly  ?  "  he  asked. 

*'A  friend,"  she  answered,  with  a  provoking  smile. 

Quickly  he  drew  it  off,  and  glancing  inside,  read  the 
inscription,  "  With  the  love  of  W.  F." 

Oil,  how  his  heart  was  rent  with  jealous  pangs  then ! 

There  was  no  longer  a  doubt  of  the  truth  of  Tom 
Henly's  words. 

"  I  wish  you  would  send  this  ring  back  to  the  donor, 
Lilly.     I  don't  think  you  should  want  to  keep  it  now." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  not,  Harry.  How  very  unreasonable 
for  you  to  ask  such  a  thing !  "  Lilly  said.  Taking  the  ring 
from  him,  sh©  ^-etumed  it  to  her  finger. 


A    VEEY    NATURAL    CONCLUSION.         203 

"Who  is  W.  F.,  Lilly?"  Harry  asked,  with  a  very- 
decided  expression  of  anger  on  his  face. 

"An  old  and  dear  friend,  Harry." 

"A  first  love,  I  suppose,  and  one  who  probably  shares  your 
heart  with  me  even  now,"  Harry  answered,  getting  up  and 
striding  up  and  down  the  floor. 

"  Harry,  when  you  asked  me  to  be  yours,  told  me  you 
loved  me,  and  received  my  assurance  of  a  returned  love, 
you  should  have  felt  sure  that  I  was  not  deceiving  you. 
If  another  possessed  my  heart,  I  could  not  have  told  you 
it  was  yours,"  Lilly  said,  gravely. 

"  Then  why  do  you  wish  to  wear  "Will  Fulton's  ring  ?  " 
Harry  said,  angrily. 

A  look  of  equal  surprise  and  inquiry  Lilly  bent  on  her 
lover,  and  then  asked : 

"Are  you  so  jealous  that  you  would  not  have  me  bear 
any  regard — " 

"  You  may  call  it  what  you  choose,  Lilly.  I  think  it  is 
your  duty  to  acquiesce  in  my  wishes ;  at  least,  in  not  con- 
tinuing to  wear  the  ring  of  a  former  lover !  " 

Lilly's  eyes  changed  their  look  of  anxiety  to  one  of  real 
merriment  then,  and  she  said,  after  a  few  moments : 

"  Well,  Harry,  I'll  promise  this  much — not  to  wear 
Willie's  ring  until  you  give  me  permission ;  but  I  cannot 
send  it  back.  In  return,  you  shall  promise  to  have  no 
more  fits  of  jealousy.  You  must  have  perfect  confidence 
in  me,  or  we  can  never  be  happy.  You  must  feel  sure  that 
I  love  you,  or  else  we  had  better  part  now,  than  in  after 
days." 

Harry  begged  for  forgiveness,  and  promised  all  Lilly 
wished ;  and  so,  for  the  time,  all  clouds  were  chased  away. 

Weeks  passed  on,  nothing  taking  place  to  mar  the  hap- 
piness of  Harry  until,  one  evening,  Lilly's  father  came  in, 
and  handing  her  a  letter,  said; 


204       A     VEEY     NATURAL    CONCLUSION. 

"  Here,  Lilly,  this  is  from  your  old  friend  Willie,  I  think 
Back  from  Europe,  I  suppose." 

A  glad  smile  broke  over  Lilly's  face,  a  dark  frown  ov<er 
Harry's. 

Closely  he  watched  her  unmistakable  look  of  pleasure 
as  she  read  the  closely  written  pages.  At  length  she  had 
finished,  and  turning  to  Harry,  was  about  to  say  some- 
thing, when  his  angry  face  caused  her  to  stop  suddenly, 
and,  with  a  look  of  real  anxiety,  to  ask : 

"What  is  the  matter,  Harry?" 

Up  he  started,  as  once  before,  and  paced  with  angry 
strides  the  floor.     At  length,  stopping  before  her,  he  said : 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  read  your  friend's  letter  ?  " 

"  No,  Harry,  I  cannot.  I  would  not  ask  such  a  thing 
from  you.     /will  read  you  much  of  it,  however." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Haywood.  I  saw  the  concluding 
line,  which,  no  doubt,  is  the  tenor  of  the  whole.  And  the 
woman  who  can  receive  with  pleasure  a  letter  ending, 
'  Ever  your  own,'  from  any  other  than  the  one  to  whom 
she  is  betrothed,  is  unworthy  the  love  and  confidence  of 
any  man.  I  wish  you  much  happiness,  and  at  the  same 
time  give  you  my  full  permission  to  return  to  your  finger 
the  ring  belonging  to  the  writer  of  that  letter.  The  re- 
minder of  my  own  folly  you  can  just  cast  into  the  fire." 
And  before  Lilly  could  recover  from  her  surprise,  the  hall 
door  closed  on  his  retiring  steps. 

"  Well,  if  he  is  not  the  most  jealous  person  I  ever  did 
Bee !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Write  and  explain,  and  try  to 
make  him  less  miserable?  No;  I'll  let  him  take  his  own 
course.  I  fear  I  should  never  be  happy  if  we  should  be 
united,"  Lilly  said,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 

The  next  day  he  came  not,  as  she  hoped.  And  after 
Beveral  days  had  passed,  she  heard  that  he  had  left  town 
—gone  without  a  word  of  parting. 


A    VERY    NATURAL    CONCLUSION.        aU& 

The  establishment  in  which  Harry  was  a  clerk  wanted 
some  one  to  travel  on  business  connected  with  the  firm. 
So  Harry  was  asked  if  he  would  like  to  go.  And  willingly 
he  agreed. 

"  I'll  banish  her  from  my  heart,"  he  said.  "And  this 
change  will  help  me." 

Tom  Henly  learned  through  Kate  Ralston  of  the  trouble 
between  Lilly  and  her  lover,  and  feeling  a  little  uneasy 
about  the  part  he  had  had  in  the  matter,  having  first  told 
Harry  about  Willie  Fulton,  he  went  to  see  Lilly,  and 
explained  to  her  the  first  cause  of  Harry's  jealousy. 

"  It  all  comes  of  my  miserable  habit  of  getting  up  a  joke, 
never  thinking  of  the  consequences,"  said  Tom,  dolefully. 

"  Never  mind.  He  deserves  to  suffer  for  his  want  of 
confidence.  Do  not  move  a  step  in  the  matter.  Wait 
until  his  return  to  his  senses,"  said  Lilly. 

Harry,  miserable  enough,  went  travelling  fi*om  city  to 

city  until  he  reached  P ,  where  he  met  one  of  his  old 

schoolmates,  who  immediately  fastened  upon  him  and, 
regardless  of  all  excuses,  carried  him  to  his  own  home. 

That  night  a  party  of  merry  girls  were  in  the  parlors, 
and  Harry,  in  an  adjoining  room,  just  finishing  his  toilet, 
heard  the  hated  name,  "  Willie  Fulton."  When  his  friend 
came  to  accompany  and  introduce  him  to  the  young 
ladies,  much  to  his  surprise,  Harry  asked  to  be  excused. 

Amazed,  the  young  man  insisted  on  knowing  the  reason 
of  the  strange  conduct,  when  Harry  answered : 

"  There  is  a  person  in  there  that  I  detest,  and  do  not 
wish  to  meet." 

"  Who  ?  "  inquired  hia  friend,  in  surprise. 

"  That  fellow  Fulton ! "  replied  Harry. 

"  Why,  George  Fulton  is  one  of  the  best  fellows  I  know.'* 

"'Tis  not  him,  but  the  other,  Willie  Fulton.  Look 
here,  Charley,  111  tell  you  just  the  whole  story  in  a  few 


206        A    VEEY    NATURAL    CONCLUSION. 

words ;  and  then,  if  you  say  go  meet  my  rival,  all  right— «• 
111  do  it." 

So  poor  Harry  told  his  story,  not  feeling  well  pleased 
that,  during  the  narration  of  which,  his  friend  Charley 
geemed  a  deal  more  amused  than  sympathizing. 

At  the  conclucion  Harry  asked : 

"iVbw  do  you  want  me  to  go  in  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  do,  and  claim  the  fulfilment  of  your  promise 
to  do  so.  Come,  I  insist !  or  I'll  go  bring  Will  and  the 
girls  in  here,"  said  Charley. 

Harry  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  into  the  parlor, 
where  he  was  presented  to  half  a  dozen  beautiful  girls, 
George  Fulton,  and  two  other  young  gentlemen.  From  the 
piano  came  sounds  of  soft  music,  accompanied  by  one  of 
the  sweetest  voices  Harry  had  ever  heard.  Soon  after  his 
entrance  the  song  was  ended,  and  the  singer  turned,  when 
Charley  introduced  Mr.  Ashfield  to  Miss  Willie  Fulton. 

I  think  Harry  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor,  so  com- 
pletely was  he  bewildered,  had  not  the  strong  arm  of 
Charley  supported  him. 

Willie  knew  the  story  of  Harry's  jealousy,  having  only 
the  day  before  received  a  long  letter  from  Lilly,  telling  of 
the  way  Willie's  name  had  deceived  him  and  made  him  so 
miserable. 

Almost  as  much  surprised  as  Harry  was  Willie,  to  meet 
the  lover  of  her  dearest  friend.  However,  quickly  recov- 
ering herself,  she  soon  placed  Harry  very  much  at  ease, 
and  in  half  an  hour  they  were  talking  of  Lilly ;  and  be- 
fore the  evening  was  over  Harry  had  confided  to  Willie 
his  trouble,  and  begged  her  intercession  to  win  for  him 
Lilly's  forgiveness. 

Lilly  sat,  a  few  evenings  after,  feeling  very  sad,  wonder- 
ing, and  wavering.  Would  Harry  come  back  ?  Or  should 
she  write  and  tell  him  the  truth  ?    Just  then,  in  the  dim 


A    VERY     XATUEAL     CONCLUSION.        201 

twilight,  she  beheld,  standing  in  the  door,  the  object  of  he 
thoughts. 

He  started  toward  her,  and  then  hesitating,  asked : 

"  Dare  I  come,  Lilly  ?  May  I  come  ?  Oh  1  I  have  had 
a  severe  lesson,  and  suffered  enough.  Do  forgive,  and 
take  me  back !  " 

"  Harry,  my  heart  pleads  with  you,  yet  I  fear  to  listen 
to  either,"  Lilly  said,  putting  up  her  hands  as  if  to  keep 
him  back. 

"  Lilly,  darling,  I  shall  never  doubt  again,"  he  said. 

"  What  has  banished  your  doubts,  Harry  ?  "  Lilly  asked. 

"An  acquaintance  with  my  supposed  rival,  with  whom 
I  am  almost  as  much  in  love  as  you  are." 

"  Yes,  Lilly,  here  I  am,  to  plead  with  and  for  him,* 
Willie  said,  coming  forward  and  stopping  any  further 
remonstrance  or  chidings  from  Lilly  by  almost  smothering 
her  with  kisses,  and  then  going  on  to  say : 

"After  all,  Lilly,  you  cannot  wonder  so  much  at  Harry's 
misgivings.  What  with  my  name,  so  very  misguiding, 
and  other  circumstances,  I  think  I  might  have  felt  just  as 
he  did." 

"Particularly  if  one  whom  you  thought  your  friend 
applied  the  match  to  fuel  already  fixed  for  the  burning,'* 
said  Tom  Henly,  entering  the  room  just  then,  and  hearing 
Willie's  plea  for  poor  Harry,  concluded  it  with  his  own. 

"Am  I  forgiven,  Lilly?" 

"Yes,  Harry,  and  fully  acquitted.  In  the  future  we 
shall  have  neither  concealments  nor  doubts,"  Lilly  an- 
Bwered,  smiling  and  happy  again. 

"  Or  loves  with  deceiving  names,"  Willie  added,  with  a 
merry  glance  toward  Harry,  who  was  too  happy  then  not 
to  join  a  laugh  even  at  his  own  expense. 


TAKING  IN  NEW  PARTNERS. 

BY  FBANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

*  •  ^HERE  goes  a  fine  catch  for  some  girl.  I  wonder  he 
JL  has  remained  a  widower  so  long.  It  is  over  three 
years  since  his  wife's  death.  Dear  me  1  I  should  think  it 
is  a  very  lonesome  life  he  has." 

"  Now,  Jane  Austin,  it  is  not  a  bit  of  use  for  you  to  sit 
at  that  window  and  watch  Captain  Arden  as  he  passes. 
He  will  never  marry  you,  nor  any  other  woman.  His  life 
is  devoted  to  his  daughter.  And  as  to  being  lonesome,  I 
guess  the  little  time  he  is  on  shore  he'll  find  enough  to 
employ  his  mind  and  time.  So  you  need  not  feel  a  bit 
uneasy  about  that,"  returned  a  sister  spinster,  who,  at  one 
time,  had  spent  many  hours  watching  the  handsome 
captain,  but  long  since  had  adopted  the  prevailing  opinion 
that  Captain  Arden  would  never  marry  again,  he  never 
having  been  known  to  spend  an  hour  in  a  woman's  society 
since  his  wife's  death. 

A  few  moments  after  the  above  conversation.  Captain 
Arden  entered  the  reception-room  of  a  young  ladies' 
seminary.  Scarce  had  he  seated  himself,  when  his  neck 
was  encircled  by  fond,  clinging  arms,  and  a  sweet  childish 
face  pressed  close  to  his.  After  returning  his  darling's 
caresses.  Captain  Arden  looked  earnestly  a  moment  into 
her  beautiful  eyes,  and  then  asked,  with  great  anxiety : 

"What  is  it,  my  love?  Something  is  troubling  you,  I 
see.  Why  are  your  eyes  not  dancing  as  usual,  and  tho 
(208^ 


TAKING     IN     NEW    PARTNERS.  209 

music  all  gone  from  your  voice  ?  Come,  tell  papa  what  k 
the  reason." 

"Oh,  papa,  you  love  me  better  than  anybody  in  the 
world,  do  you  not?  "  the  child  sobbed. 

"  Indeed  I  do,  my  own." 

"  Oh,  papa,  papa !  but  will  you  always  do  so? " 

"Why,  Flory,  little  girl,  what  do  you  mean?"  her 
i&ther  asked,  amazed  by  her  agitation. 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  say  you  always  will.  And  it  is  true 
what  the  girls  all  say.  You  will  find  somebody  else  to 
love.  Oh,  you  cruel  papa !  you  will  marry  somebody  some 
of  these  days,  and  then  your  poor  little  Flory  will  only 
have  a  little  mite  of  your  heart." 

"You  silly  little  love,  to  let  these  girls  tease  you  bo. 
Come,  we  will  make  a  solemn  compact,  Flory.  Now  give 
me  your  hand,  and  look  right  into  my  eyes.  Now  I 
promise  never  to  wed  any  woman,  nor  to  seek  to  win  the 
love  of  any,  as  long  as  my  daughter  remains  true  to  her 
father.  While  you  are  with  me,  giving  me  your  entire 
love,  I  ask  for  nothing  more.  We  will  live  for  each  other, 
Flory.     "WTiat  say  you  ?    Will  you  promise  this,  too  ?  " 

"Gladly,  gladly,  papa,"  Flory  answered,  with  another 
fond  embrace.     Then,  with  a  doubtful  look,  she  asked : 

"  But,  papa,  you  mean  that  I  must  not  care  for  any  man. 
save  you  ?  That  is  it — is  it  not?  "  a  bright  flush  mounting 
to  her  fair  brow;  "because,  papa,  I  do  love  Ada  Foster 
dearly.  She  was  one  of  my  schoolmates  last  year.  Now 
she  is  one  of  our  teachers.  Somebody  must  love  her  very 
much  now,  particularly  because  her  father  is  dead.  That 
is  why  she  stays  here  to  teach.  She  is  an  orphan,  papa, 
and  so  sweet ;  and  she  is  so  good  and  wise  too ;  older  thaa 
I — ^by  nearly  five  years — and — " 

"  Stop,  little  chatter-box,  a  moment.    How  old  are  you  ?  " 

"Fourteen  last  birthday,  papa;  and  Ada  is  quit©  old, 


210  TAKING     IN    NEW    PAETNERB. 

almost  twenty.  You  ought  to  know  her ;  you  would  be 
Bure  to  like  her,  papa." 

"Very  well,  Flory,  you  can  love  your  friend  Ada  a3 
much  as  you  choose ;  but  do  not  let  me  hear  of  any  other 
love.  And  this  voyage  I  shall  make  to  sea  will  be  the  last, 
my  child.  By  the  time  I  get  back,  two  years  hence,  you 
will  be  old  enough  to  preside  over  our  home ;  and  then  we 
will  be  separated  no  more.  So  you  must  learn  all  you  can, 
little  one,  against  that  happy  time.  So  now  rest  easy 
about  your  father's  heart.  It  will  never  wander  from  hia 
darling." 

A  few  weeks  more,  and  Captain  Arden  set  sail  on  the 
voyage  he  had  promised  should  be  his  last.  He  was  a 
very  handsome  man,  and  entirely  too  young  to  dedicate 
himself  to  a  life  of  celibacy.  Bright  eyes  grew  brighter, 
and  rosy  lips  were  wreathed  with  the  sweetest  smiles,  at 
his  approach.  In  foreign  ports,  as  well  as  in  his  native, 
city,  he  was  a  great  favorite,  and  many  a  manoeuvring 
mamma  angled  in  vain  to  catch  him.  In  truth,  he  kept 
pretty  well  out  of  their  way.  He  cared  not  for  the  fair 
ones'  society. 

Flory's  mother  had  been  the  first  and  only  love  of  hia 
youth ;  and  her  memory  was  dearer  still  than  anything  ia 
the  world,  save  her  child.  So  ho  remained  very  true  to 
the  promise  made  his  daughter.  And  she  guarded  her 
heart  well  against  any  one's  invading  what  she  considered 
her  father's  exclusive  rights. 

Flory  was  very  beautiful,  and  numberless  brothers  and 
cousins  of  her  companions  cast  admiring  eyes,  and  sought 
to  win  some  sign  of  favor  from  her.  But  all  to  no  avail. 
So  when  the  two  years  had  passed  by,  and  Captain  Arden 
returned  to  his  child,  both,  after  an  inquiring  glance  into 
the  other's  eyes,  were  fully  satisfied  that  no  other  love  had 
entered  the  heart  of  either. 


TAKING    IN     NEW    PARTNERS  211 

It  was  to  a  home  of  rare  beauty,  as  well  as  every  com- 
Xort,  that  Captain  Arden  carried  his  daughter.  The  walls 
Were  adorned  with  the  works  of  the  old  masters,  while 
every  niche  and  corner  was  filled  with  gems  of  art.  They 
were  very  happy.  Why  should  they  not  have  been? 
Everything  contributed  to  make  them  so. 

"It  is  all  very  well  while  it  lasts,"  was  the  frequent 
remark  of  some  of  Arden 's  friends.  "  They  will  both  tire 
of  this  living  only  for  each  other  before  a  great  while." 

"  Why  should  they  ?  And  what  on  earth  can  possibly 
mar  their  happiness  ?  "  asked  another,  not  so  well  versed 
in  the  ways  of  the  world,  or  of  the  hearts  in  it. 

"What?  The  ono  great  power — the  heart's  demands. 
A  love  not  to  be  satisfied  by  filial  or  parental  afiection, 
that  is  what  will  do  it.  The  Master  of  our  being  never 
intended  this  sort  of  thing.  It  is  unnatural,  and  I  have 
never  met  with  any  happy  conclusion  of  such  a  compact, 
except  by  the  firm  dissolving  and  taking  in  new  partners," 
was  the  sage  reply. 

However,  a  year  passed  by  and  nothing  happened  to 
mar  Captain  Arden's  or  Flory's  happiness.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  a  young  man  came,  bringing  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction from  his  father,  one  of  Captain  Arden's  dearest 
friends.  This  young  man  was  not  only  welcomed  with 
great  cordiality,  but  Captain  Arden  insisted  that  during 
his  stay  in  the  city,  he  should  become  his  guest. 

So  it  was  that  Fred  Fulton  was  thrown  in  the  constant 
Bociety  of  Flory ;  a  very  dangerous  thing  for  the  peace  of 
mind  of  both.  Any  one  seeing  these  two  might  know 
they  were  sure  to  love  each  other.  Flor}'-,  who  was  a 
fairy-like  little  creature,  with  golden  curls  and  azure  eyes, 
as  merry  as  a  bird,  and  frolicsome  as  a  kitten,  had  all 
her  life  a  passion  for  black  eyes  and  raven  locks.  So 
there  was  Fred,  just  such  a  hero  as  all  blp^de  girls  are 


£12  TAKING    IN    NEW    PARTNERS. 

Bure  to  dream  about.  Then  he  had  such  a  touching, 
taking  sadness  about  him,  that  went  straight  to  Flory*3 
kind,  sympathetic  little  heart.  Now,  to  do  her  justice, 
she  fought  bravely  against  the  spirit  that  came  stealing 
over  her,  and  really  either  would  have  kept  herself  away 
from  him,  or  sent  Fred  off  home,  had  not  the  duties  of 
hostess  prevented.  The  next  best  thing  was  to  get  some 
one  else  to  come  and  help  to  entertain  her  guest.  Ada 
Foster  had,  a  few  weeks  previous  to  Captain  Arden's 
taking  his  daughter  from  school,  been  sent  for  by  an  aged 
relative  to  come  and  live  with  her.  Thus  the  friends  had 
been  separated.  Often  Flory  wished  that  Ada  could  be 
with  her,  saying,  "  Then  I  should  not  think  so  much  of 
this  dark-eyed  stranger." 

Just  then  Ada's  aunt  died,  leaving  the  orphan  girl  in 
possession  of  quite  a  large  fortune. 

How  Flory  rejoiced,  not  only  in  her  friend's  good  luck, 
but  more  in  her  freedom.  Now  she  could  come  to  her — • 
be  again  daily  her  adviser  and  confidante.  And  so  she 
wrote  to  Ada,  begging  her  to  come.  Soon  she  came.  But, 
alas,  for  Flory's  thoughts  about  banishing  Fred  from  her 
heart!  Daily  he  grew  dearer.  And  now  the  poor  girl 
upbraided  herself  for  ingratitude,  in  thus  allowing  any 
stranger  to  share  the  heart  that  should  belong  entirely  to 
such  a  devoted  father  as  hers ! 

Fred's  visit  was  drawing  near  its  close.  A  few  days 
previous  to  his  leaving,  he  found  Flory  alone,  and  then. 
told  her  his  heart's  story.  But,  poor  fellow,  his  hopes 
received  a  very  sudden  check.  Flory  dismissed  him — 
solemnly  declaring  she  should  never  marry. 

So  Fred  went  away  very  miserable;  and  Flory's  bright 
eyes  grew  sad,  and  her  merry  voice  ceased  its  carolling 
about  the  house.  Her  father  grew  very  uneasy,  and 
declared  she  must  b<*  ill.     So,  to  relieve  her  father's 


TAKING    IN    NEW    PARTNERS.  213 

anxiety,  Flory  feigned  a  happier  mood.  But  someho^j 
her  efforts  were  of  little  avail.  Captain  Arden's  joke« 
grew  less  frequent,  and  his  merry,  ringing  laugh  wa< 
eeldom  heard.  Even  Flory's  winning  little  ways  failed  U 
satisfy  or  make  him  happy. 

Truly,  a  wonderful  change  had  come  over  the  onca 
happy  little  household. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  Flory? "  and  "  What  troubles 
papa?"  were  the  thoughts  which  agitated  the  minds 
of  both. 

Ada  Foster  was  the  only  wise  one  of  the  three.  She 
knew  well  enough  what  the  trouble  was  with  the  captain, 
as  well  as  Flory.  For  how  could  she  mistake  the  devo- 
tion of  Captain  Arden's  manner  to  herself?  Many  times, 
when  suddenly  raising  her  eyes,  she  had  seen  his  gazing 
earnestly  and  admiringly  on  her.  Then  quickly  they 
Would  seek  Flory,  and,  with  a  sigh  and  a  deprecating 
look,  he  would  leave  the  room.  Yes,  Ada  understood  all 
about  the  trouble,  and  resolved  to  put  the  minds  of  her 
friends  all  right.  Their  hearts  were  just  as  they  should  be. 
She  rejoiced  in  the  discovery  she  had  made,  for  the  weeks 
she  had  spent  in  the  society  of  the  captain  had  revealed  U 
her  such  true  nobility  of  character,  that  she  had  grown  to 
think  of  him  more  than  ever  of  any  man  before.  Yes^ 
Ada  loved  him.  She  did  not  try  to  deceive  herself  about 
it.  And  so,  to  save  four  persons  from  misery,  she  resolved 
to  bring  Flory  to  her  senses  first,  and  trust  to  luck  foY 
the  captain  following  after  in  the  same  course. 

One  evening,  when  out  for  a  drive,  an  opportunity  was 
presented  for  Ada  to  "  open  Flory's  eyes,"  as  she  said  to 
herself. 

They  were  nearing  a  fine  old  mansion,  to  which  Flory 
pointed  and  said : 

"  What  a  grand  old  place  that  is  I  How  ^  should  like 
to  own  it  I " 


£14  TAKING    IN    NEW    PARTNERS. 

"I  think  it  a  very  gloomy-looking  place,  and  would 
like  a  home  of  more  cheerful  aspect,"  replied  Ada. 

"  Well,  it  has  a  very  gloomy  look.  But  then  there  are 
strange  folks  living  in  it — only  an  old  bachelor  and  old 
maid.  They  seldom  have  visitors,  and  only  live  for  each 
other.  The  servants  tell  of  their  being  the  saddest  couple 
ever  seen,''  said  Flory. 

"I  do  not  wonder.  I've  heard  the  story  of  those  poor 
mistaken  folks,  each  having  sacrificed  their  heart's  best 
love  for  the  sake  of  the  other ;  bUndly  thinking  they 
should  find  happiness,  or,  if  not  that,  content  in  doing 
what  they  called  duty.  This  unnatural  way  of  living 
never  brings  either,  only  years  of  disappointment  and 
ceaseless  regrets." 

"  Oh,  Ada  !     Can  it  ever  become  so  with  papa,  or  I  ?  " 

"  Flor}'',  I  must  answer  your  inquiry  by  another.  Are 
you  happy  now,  in  the  sacrifice  you  are  making  ?  " 

"I  may  be  by-and-by,"  answered  Flory,  trying  to 
repress  the  sigh  which  would  come  nevertheless. 

"I  think  not,  Flory;  neither  are  you  making  your 
father  nor  poor  Fred  very  happy." 

"Ada,  tell  me ;  what  is  the  matter  with  papa  ?  Does 
he  suspect  my  heart  has  wandered  a  little  from  him  ?  Yes, 
it  is  this,  I  know,  which  makes  him  so  sad.  Oh,  how 
ungrateful  I  have  been !     Dear,  good,  noble  papa !  " 

"No,  Flory;  it  is  not  your  love  for  Fred,  that  is  trou- 
bling your  father,  I'm  quite  sure.  Have  you  never 
thought  perchance  he,  as  well  as  you,  may  have  taken 
Bome  one  else  to  share  his  love  ?  "  asked  Ada,  a  delicate 
blush  suffusing  her  face. 

"  Papa's  heart  given  to  another !  No,  no ;  he  would  not 
break  his  pledge  to  me — " 

"  No  more  than  you  have  with  him,  Flory.  But  you 
see  how  it  is,  little  oina.    We  cannot  regulate  the  impulses 


TAKING    IN     NEW    PARTNERS.  215 

of  the  heart.  Love  will  wander  where  it  chooses ;  and  I 
think  it  is  the  contest  against  this  that  is  causing  all  our 
trouble  just  now." 

^^Our  trouble,  Ada!  Are  you  unhappy  too?"  asked 
Flory,  looking  inquiringly  into  her  friend's  eyes. 

"  Only — because  of  my  dearest  friends'  unhappiness." 

Flory  had  fixed  her  eyes  very  earnestly  on  her  friend. 
She  continued  to  gaze  some  minutes,  and  then  light 
seemed  to  have  dawned  upon  her.  She  caught  Ada's 
hands  in  hers,  exclaiming  : 

"  Oh,  I  know  now !  How  blind  I've  been !  Oh,  I'm  so 
glad  !  so  very,  very  glad,  Ada !  Hush  !  don't  say  another 
word  I     We  shall  all  be  so  happy  now  ! " 

"Stop,  you  mad-cap!  What  do  you  know?"  asked 
Ada. 

"  That  I'm  going  to  have  James  turn  his  horses'  heads 
tov/ard  home.  I  want  to  put  my  arms  around  papa's 
neck,  tell  him  my  secret,  and  win  his — " 

"And  betray  another's,  Flory  1 " 

"  No,  no.  I've  grown  very  wise  at  last.  You  darling 
Ada ! " 

A  very  little  while  after,  Captain  Arden  sat  in  his 
library,  looking  anything  but  happy.  A  sigh  had  scarcely 
escaped  his  lips,  when  his  neck  was  encircled  by  Flory's 
arms.     And  she  asked,  with  a  comical  little  smile : 

"  Papa,  what  is  the  reason  you  and  I  are  not  just  as 
happy  as  we  used  to  be  ?  " 

He  drew  her  within  his  arms,  and  said : 

"  You  are  sure  we  are  not,  my  darling  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  so,  papa." 

"What  can  I  do  to  make  you  so,  my  child?"  he 
ttsked. 

"  By  being  so  yourself,  papa." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  was  about  to  reply,  when. 


216  TAKING    IN    NEW    PARTNERS. 

biuying  her  bright  head  in  his  bosom,  she   murmured 
low: 

"  Papa,  do  we  not  both  of  us  want  to  dissolve  the  com- 
pact we  made  years  ago  ?  " 

"  My  darling,  what  can  you  mean  ?  " 

**  Oh,  papa,  you  know !  Do  not  you  and  I  want  to 
take  in  new  partners  ?  "  she  said,  breaking  into  a  merry 
little  laugh,  which  was  finished  in  a  shower  of  happy 
tears. 

As  if  by  magic,  the  clouds  were  banished  from  his 
brow,  and  the  happy,  genial-looking  man  of  a  year  before, 
said: 

"  So  this  Kttle  truant  heart  has  taken  another  in  to  crowd 
me  out,  hey  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  papa.  I  love  you  none  the  less  because  I've 
learned  to  love — well,  just  as  you  love  somebody  else." 

"What  a  wise  little  woman  you  have  grown  to  be, 
Floryl" 

"Yes,  papa;  I  know  now  that  you  and  I  will  love  each 
other  all  the  dearer  by  dissolving  our  old  agreement 
and  entering  into  another,  where  no  sacrifices  will  be 
required." 

"  And  who  is  my  rival,  little  one?  " 

A  whisper  close  to  her  father's  ear,  with  a  smiling 
approval  from  him ;  and  then,  with  a  very  grave  look,  she 
said: 

"  Ada  leaves  us  next  week,  papa.'* 

"  No,  Flory  !  Can  you  let  her  go?  "  he  asked,  the  sad 
look  coming  back. 

"  Yes,  papa ;  if  you  will  make  her  promise  to  come  back 
and  remain  forever ! "  Flory  answered,  smiling. 

Catching  her  quickly,  and  pressing  her  to  his  heart, 
Captain  Arden  went  out.  Flory  heard  him  enter  the 
drawinflr-roona.    An  hour  after  he  returned,  drew  her  m&L 


TAKING     IN     NEW    PARTNERS.  217 

tim  to  Ada's  side,  and  said,  his  voice  Ml  of  joyful 
emotion : 

"She  has  promised,  Flory.  Help  me  thank  her  for 
making  us  so  happy." 

Flory's  arms  were  about  her,  her  lips  pressed  to  hers. 

That  evening  a  little  messenger  was  despatched  to  Fred, 
bearing,  from  Ada,  just  one  word,  "  Come." 

After  a  few  weeks  more  the  new  partners  were  united 
in  a  firm  compact,  which  gives  assurance  of  the  puresii 
happiness  «arth  can  afford. 


THE  BALL-BOOM  BELLE. 

BY  FBANCES  HEKSHAW  BADBN. 

^^  ^rOU  love  her,  my  son?" 
i      "  Indeed,  mother,  I  do." 

"And  have  told  her  so  ?  " 

"  Never  in  words,  mother: 

An  expression  of  relief  escaped  Mrs.  Hawlcy's  lipg, 
And  putting  her  hand  caressingly  on  her  son's  shoulder, 
ghe  said : 

"  Herbert,  when  your  brother  married,  having  no  daugh' 
ter  of  my  oAvn,  my  heart  was  gladdened  with  the  thought 
that  my  boy's  wife  would  fill  the  vacant  piace  in  both 
heart  and  home.  You  know  how  terribly  I  was  disap- 
pointed, and  how  his  life  has  been,  so  far,  a  miserable 
failure — ^that  the  one  who  should  have  been  a  helpmate  is 
really  a  burden,  a  butterfly  of  fashion,  never  satisfied 
unless  in  some  scene  of  gayety ;  careless  of  home,  husband, 
and  children.  Oh !  my  boy,  with  this,  Albert's  dreadful 
mistake,  ever  before  you,  I  fear  you  will  do  likewise. 
Louise  Delmar  is  not  the  girl  to  make  you  happy.  Among 
the  beauties  and  belles  of  the  ball-room  can  scarcely  be 
found  one  fitted  to  fill  with  happiness  the  quiet  home 
circle.  The  petted  favorite  of  such  a  woman  as  Mrs. 
Courtney,  her  aunt,  whose  whole  life  is  devoted  to  fashion, 
what  can  we  expect  of  Louise  ?  Should  poverty  and  sick- 
ness come  to  you,  how  could  she  bear  it?  Herbert, 
promise  me  you  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  mattei 
(218) 


THE     BALL-BOOM    BELLE.  219 

until  you  know  ber  better  ;  that  is,  until  you  find  out  sha 
is  different  from  what  she  seems. '^ 

"  Oh,  mother,  how  can  I  ever  know  her  better,  unless  I 
become  something  more  to  her  than  a  mere  acquaintance? 
Do  not  bind  me  with  such  a  promise,"  pleaded  Herbert. 

"  I  must.  Promise  me,  my  son  !  Your  happiness  is  my 
only  aim.  If  she  is  worthy,  you  will  find  it  out  some 
time." 

"After  another  man  has  won  her,  perhaps,"  said  Her- 
bert, gloomily. 

"  No,  I  think  not.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  withdraw  en- 
tirely from  her  society ;  and  if  you  have  made  a  favorable 
impression  on  her  heart,  she  will  not  readily  transfer  her 
kindly  feeling  to  another." 

Mrs.  Hawley  won  from  Herbert  the  promise  she  sought. 
Poor  fellow !  the  bright  hopes  which  filled  his  heart  were 
very  suddenly  dashed  aside. 

He  believed  Louise  thought  more  favorably  of  him  than 
any  of  the  other  young  men  who  sought  her  society.  He 
had  determined,  after  speaking  to  his  mother  on  the  sub- 
ject, to  seek  Louise,  tell  his  love,  and  win  her  promise  to 
be  his.  So,  of  course,  the  interview  with  his  mother,  and 
the  result,  was  a  severe  disappointment. 

A  few  evenings  after,  Mrs.  Hawley  was  seated  in  the 
parlor  with  Herbert.  Vainly  she  had  endeavored  to  draw 
him  into  conversation.  He  remained  in  gloomy  silence. 
And  his  mother  was  wishing  some  one  would  come  in,  to 
make  it  necessary  for  him  to  throw  off  the  feeling  of 
depression,  and  exert  himself  to  be  a  little  agreeable,  when 
the  door  opened  and  the  servant  announced  Mr.  Mayo. 

Tom  Mayo  was  Herbert's  particular  chum  and  class- 
mate; the  merriest  fellow  and  best  friend  in  the  world. 
Mrs.  Hawley  gladly  welcomed  his  coming.  As  he  ackrowl- 
edged  that  lady's  cordial  greeting,  iie  said-- 


220  THE    BALL-nOOM    BELLE. 

"  My  call  is  especially  for  you,  Mrs.  Hawley ;  to  solicit 
your  influence  with  that  obstinate  son  of  yours.  I've 
been  pleading  with  him  for  a  week  past  to  promise  he 
will  go  home  with  me  to  Baltimore,  and  spend  the  Easter 
holidays.  My  sister  has  written  me  to  bring  a  couple  of 
friends.  She  is  going  to  have  some  of  her  school-mates, 
and  we  expect  a  very  pleasant  time.  But  Herbert  insists 
he  cannot — in  a  word,  will  not  go.     Will  you  help  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Hawley  was  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  such  a 
change  for  Herbert,  and  earnestly  joined  her  efforts  with 
his  friend's  to  induce  him  to  go. 

At  length  they  were  successful.  And  the  next  morning 
Tom,  Herbert,  and  another  friend  left  town  for  the  former's 
home. 

Three  days  after  Mrs.  Hawley  received  a  letter  from  her 
Bon,  bringing  this  information : 

"  On  my  arrival  at  Mr.  Mayo's,  I  received  a  surprise 
which  would  have  been  a  very  happy  one,  had  I  not  been 
bound  by  that  hard  promise.  You,  perhaps,  will  think  it 
all  a  concerted  plan.  But  I  tell  you,  mother,  and  you  will 
believe  me,  I  never  dreamed  of  meeting  Louise  Delmar, 
when  I  stood  before  her  in  Mrs.  Mayo's  dra^j'ing-room." 

Notwithstanding  the  barrier  against  any  further  prog- 
ress in  Herbert's  wooing,  he  spent  a  very  pleasant  week. 
New  hope  was  in  his  heart.  In  daily  intercourse  with 
Louise,  his  love  grew  greater.  He  was  convinced  life  with 
her  would  be  such  as  to  make  him  the  happiest  of  mortals. 
Gazing  into  her  beautiful  eyes,  often  he  saw  a  look  of  such 
deep  earnestness  that  again  and  again  he  was  assured  she 
was  very  different  from  his  mother's  belief.  Still,  how 
could  he  convince  her  that  Louise's  heart  was  fixed  on 
eomething  higher  and  purer  than  a  life  of  fashionable  ex- 
citement? 

Another  proof  to  him  of  her  worth  was,  the  children 


THE    BALL-ROOM    BELLE.  221 

lingered  near  and  clung  about  her,  while  she  listened  with 
interest  to  their  merry  prattle,  and  busied  her  fingers  with 
little  articles  for  their  amusement. 

The  aged  grandmother  loved  to  call  upon  her.  Herbert 
saw  how  tenderly  the  young  girl's  arms  were  placed 
around  her,  to  support  the  trembling  form,  and  he  wished 
his  mother  could  see  her  thus. 

It  was  the  last  evening  of  their  stay.  Tom  and  his 
friend  had  prolonged  the  pleasant  visit  to  the  last  hour. 
Herbert's  business  had  not  been  so  pressing  as  the  others', 
and  he  would  gladly  have  remained  longer;  but  of 
course  he  felt  bound  to  return  when  they  did. 

It  was  a  terrible  night.  The  rain,  which  had  been  falling 
during  the  afternoon,  came  down  in  torrents  then.  There 
was  no  prospect  of  anything  better  in  the  morning. 
Kevertheless  they  must  leave  in  the  early  train. 

Herbert  had  accompanied  Tom  down  to  the  basement, 
in  a  hunt  for  sundry  rubber  coats  and  overshoes.  They 
were  about  to  enter  the  kitchen,  to  make  inquiries  of 
Bridget,  when  a  howl  or  wail,  as  of  the  greatest  grief  and 
despair,  escaped  that  worthy  woman's  lips.  Herbert 
started  back  with  a  look  of  much  anxiety.  Tom 
whispered : 

"  Nothing  of  much  consequence.  Something  has  gone 
wrong  with  her.  Stand  back  a  little  and  be  quiet;  we 
shall  soon  know  the  trouble.  She  will  be  sure  to  relieve 
her  mind  with  a  torrent  of  words,  and  we  will  hear  some- 
thing rich,  I  think." 

And  soon  it  was  as  Tom  predioted.  Bridget,  after 
another  howl,  groaned  forth : 

"  Tin  o'clock !  Oh !  bad  luck  to  him  !  an'  he'll  not 
come  to-night !  An'  it's  Bridget  O'Grady's  riputation  as  a 
first-class  cook,  all  to  be  ruined  by  a  baste  of  a  butcher- 
boy  1    An'  it's  a  bit  of  rain  that  he's  afraid  of  1 " 


222  THE     BAIiL-BOOM     BELLE. 

Just  then  the  listeners'  attention  was  directed  from 
Bridget  by  the  sound  of  light  footsteps  coming  down  the 
Btairs.  Further  hack  into  the  shade  they  drew,  as  the 
kitchen  door  opened,  and  they  heard  the  pleasant  voice  of 
Miss  Delmar  asking : 

"  Can  I  have  some  hot  water,  Bridget,  to  fix  grandma 
something  nice  to  drink  before  she  goes  to  bed  ?  " 

Bridget  immediately  poured  out  her  griefs  to  Louise, 
who  at  once  undertook  to  help  get  a  breakfast,  which 
should  sustain  the  reputation  of  the  kitchen,  out  of  the 
scanty  materials  on  hand,  and  ended  by  saying : 

"  We  will  give  the  gentlemen  a  very  nice  breakfast, 
Bridget." 

"  It  strikes  me,  Tom,  we  are  learning  some  secrets  in  the 
culinary  art  in  a  rather  questionable  way.  I  think  we  had 
better  retire,"  said  Herbert. 

Again  the  wish  was  in  his  heart,  "  Oh,  if  mother  could 
only  hear  and  see  her  as  I  have !  " 

The  next  morning,  when  Herbert  entered  the  breakfast- 
room,  he  felt  a  little  curiosity  to  see  the  result  of  Miss 
Delmar's  debut  in  Bridget's  domain. 

As  he  had  hoped,  the  object  of  his  thoughts  that 
morning,  and  dreams  the  night  before,  was  waiting  at  the 
table  to  preside  at  the  breakfast,  which,  to  Herbert's  mind, 
was  the  most  delightful  in  his  life. 

Louise  was  looking  charming  in  her  simple,  but  most 
becoming,  morning  toUet.  Bridget  was  the  picture  of 
good  humor.  And  how  could  she  be  otherwise?  The 
breakfast  was  a  perfect  success.  The  fragrant  steaming 
cofiee;  the  rice-cakes,  so  Hght  and  crisp;  an  omelet, 
beautiful  to  look  at,  and  delicious  to  taste;  a  dish  of 
dehcate  and  tempting-looking  httle  articles,  which  the 
young  gentlemcD  seemed  to  relish  very  highly;  Louise 
laughingly  called  them  "  wonders,"  and  Herbert  was  sure 


THE     BALL-ROOM     BELLE.  223 

they  were  the  result  of  Bridget's  attack  on  the  much-abused 
"  ham  bone,"  and  were  more  palatable  than  the  most 
"  dacent  "  slice  that  ever  was  cut  from  a  ham. 

None  of  the  ladies  of  the  family  were  present  to  say 
good-by.  The  parting  words  were  given  the  night  before. 
I  think  most  hkely  Tom's  sister  would  have  been  with 
them,  if  Bridget's  report  of  the  very  poor  breakfast  had 
not  kept  her  away.  She  would  not  incur  the  mortifica- 
tion of  presiding  at  such  a  meal. 

The  time  for  leaving  came.  It  was  a  severe  trial  for 
Herbert,  to  go  without  whispering  a  word  of  tenderness  or 
plead  for  permission  to  write  to  Louise.  There  was  such 
A  wistful  earnestness  in  his  eyes,  as  they  lingered  so  long 
gazing  into  hers,  that  Louise  knew  then  he  loved  her,  and 
wondered  why  he  did  not  tell  her  so.  In  the  hall  the 
young  gentlemen  called  Bridget,  to  thank  her  for  the  very 
nice  breakfast  she  had  given  them  at  such  a  very  unseason- 
able hour. 

Bridget,  looking  at  the  notes  that  were  placed  in  her 
hand,  hesitated  a  moment  before  speaking  her  thanks^ 
and  then  exclaimed : 

"  Yes,  it's  your  dollars  I'll  take,  for  she's  not  wantin'  fot 
them;  an'  thank  ye.  But  it's  the  riputation  and  cridit 
that  Bridget  O'Grady  will  take  from  no  one.  The  break- 
fast was  none  of  me  doin'.  Miss  Louise  it  was ;  an'  all 
out  of  a  ham  bone  and  a  bit  of  nothin',  she  made  the  illc' 
gant  breakfast.  Ay,  it's  a  jewel  she  is !  worth  a  deal  more 
thin  the  diamonds  in  your  bosom  now,  Mr.  Hawley. 
Sure,  an'  it's  a  lucky  man  that  gets  her,  it  is  1 " 

Herbert's  heart  fully  responded  to  Bridget's  praises  of 
Louise.  With  her  voice  pouring  forth  blessings  and 
thanks  still  sounding  in  their  eass,  the  friends  hurried  off. 

Herbert,  immediately  after  his  arrival  home,  gave  his 
mother  a  full  account  of  his  visit.  How  deep  an  impres- 
sion hia  account  and  assurances  of  Miss  l>'=^^mar's  worth 


224  THE     BALL-ROOM    BELLE. 

made  on  that  lady's  mind,  I  cannot  say.  But  I  think  most 
likely  she  made  full  allowance  for  a  lover's  enthusiasm. 

That  evening,  after  business  hours,  Tom  called. 

Hunting  for  something  in  his  pocket,  he  drew  forth  a 
letter,  and  said : 

"  There !  I  declare,  this  is  too  bad !  I  promised  Miss 
Delmar  to  deliver  this  to-night.  I  forgot  all  about  it.  It's 
too  late  now,  and  it  is  fully  a  mile  from  here ! " 

"  To  Mrs.  Courtney's?  "  asked  Herbert. 

"  Oh,  no  !  Mrs.  Agatha  Foster's,  Fourteenth  street.  She 
is  an  old  lady,  and  a  very  highly  esteemed  friend  of  Miss 
Delmar's,"  answered  Tom. 

"The  name  is  very  familiar,"  said  Mrs.  Hawley.  After 
a  moment's  thought,  she  continued :  "Ah,  I  remember ; 
I  knew  her  several  years  ago.  Once,  I  have  heard,  she 
was  in  very  comfortable  circumstances ;  but  meeting  with 
sad  reverses,  she  became  housekeeper  in  the  Courtney 
family,  remaining  with  them  until  her  son  grew  to  man- 
hood; and  she  is  with  him  now,  I  believe." 

A  bright  thought  came  to  Mrs.  Hawley  then.  From 
Mrs.  Foster  she  could  learn  all  about  Miss  Delmar. 

"  Mr.  Mayo,"  she  said,  "  if  you  have  no  objection,  I  will 
deliver  this  letter  to-morrow  morning.  It  is  many  years 
since  I  met  Mrs.  Foster,  and  I  should  like  to  renew  the 
acquaintance." 

Tom  gladly  acquiesced.  Herbert's  eyes  sought  his 
mother's.  Instantly  he  knew  the  object  of  the  visit,  and 
he  felt  confident  of  the  final  result. 

The  next  morning  found  Mrs.  Hawley  in  the  humble 
home  of  Miss  Delmar's  friend.  The  old  lady  delighted  in 
talking  of  Louise.  She  brought  forth  numerous  articles 
of  comfort,  the  work  of  her  favorite.  She  told  of  the 
many  hours,  when  Louise's  friends  supposed  her  in  some 
place  of  amusement,  she  had  spent  cheerioet  b«r  solitude;, 
and  seeking  to  relieve  >Mar  suffering 


THE    BAIiL-ROOM    BELLE.  226 

"You  know  her  in  the  fashionable  world ;  I  in  the  hum- 
ble home.  With  her  high  position,  beauty,  grace,  and 
accomplishments,  she  will  likely  make  a  brilliant  match. 
But  I  often  think  what  a  blessing  she  would  be  to  a  poor 
man.  She  is  my  pupil,  but  she  understands  domestic 
economy  better  than  I,  although  my  instructor  has  been  a 
severe  one — necessity." 

When  Mrs.  Hawley  returned  to  Herbert,  she  smilingly 
eaid: 

"Mrs.  Foster  is  not  an  impartial  judge,  for  she  is  as 
much  in  love  with  Miss  Delmar  as  you.  But  I  give  you. 
back  your  promise,  Herbert.     Win  her  if  you  can  I " 

Herbert  hastened  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  so, 
under  plea  of  pressing  business,  he  again  visited  Baltimore. 

Very  much  surprised  was  Louise  when,  less  than  a  week 
after  parting  with  Herbert,  the  servant  handed  her  his 
card,  saying  he  was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room. 

An  hour  after  Herbert  was  happy.  He  had  told  his 
love,  and  won  Louise's  promise  to  be  his. 

Mrs.  Hawley  was  a  just  woman.  She  fully  acknowl- 
edged her  error  in  pronouncing  Louise  unfitted  for 
domestic  happiness.  And  ever  after  declared,  "  Herbert's 
•wife  is  a  real  treasure."  Louise  truly  filled  the  vacant 
place  in  her  heart  and  home.     Often  she  says : 

"  Louise  is  a  perfect  wonder,  Herbert." 

And  Herbert  wondered  that  she  had  ever  thought  heB 
otherwise. 

Mrs.  Hawley,  since  she  has  really  known  Louise,  has 
learned  some  valuable  truths :  that  appearances  are  very 
deceiving ;  in  the  belle  and  beauty  may  be  found  a  house- 
hold angel.  And,  better  than  these,  that  a  woman  whose 
heart  is  pure  and  true,  no  matter  what  her  surroundings 
may  have  been,  must  ever  prove  a  blessing  apf*  comfort 
to  those  about  her. 


A  COSTLY  JOKE. 

BY  FRANCES  HENSHAW  BADEN. 

STANDING  on  the  marble  porch  of  an  elegant  mansion) 
on avenue  were  a  youth  and  maiden.     He  was 

about  bidding  good -by,  seemingly.  Her  hand  wa,3 
clasped  in  his,  and  retained  a  moment  longer  than  she 
thought  was  necessary.     Drawing  it  away,  she  said : 

"There,  Julian,  I  cannot  stop  here  longer.  I've  only- 
half  an  hour  to  dress  for  dinner ;  and  your  time  must  be 
precious  too.  Uncle  will  expect  you  back  before  he  leaves 
his  counting-room." 

"A  moment  more,  Fay.  Tell  me;  will  you  give  mo 
that  picture  of  yours  I've  begged  for  so  often  ?  Do,  do, 
Fay !  If  you  only  knew  how  I  would  prize  it,  I  think  you 
would. " 

He  looked  so  handsome,  and  pleaded  so  earnestly,  it 
was  wonderful  how  Fay  Mandeville  could  refuse  him. 
But  she  was  a  very  thoughtful  and  wise  little  girl  for  her 
years,  only  just  sixteen. 

"  Nay,  Julian,  I  cannot.  You  know  uncle  would  not 
approve  of  that.  You  have  heard  him  express  his  opinion 
about  a  young  lady's  '  promiscuously  distributing  her  face 
around,'  as  he  says.'' 

"  Promiscuously !  Thank  you.  Miss  Mandeville.  I  had 
flattered  myself  with  a  hope  I  was — " 

A  coming  step  arrested  his  words.     Immediately  after  a 
young  man  ascended  the  steps,  and  etood  beside  them. 
(226) 


A     ««»B^TL.Y     JOKE.  227 

What  a  contrast  between  the  two  youths  I  The  one 
fashionable,  elegantly  dressed,  conceited  and  superciHous 
in  manner  certainly,  just  at  that  moment,  when  he  gazed 
on  the  "  very  poorly  clad  and  humble-looking  individual." 
as  he  considered  him. 

But  when  the  hat  vr&s  raised  from  the  broad,  noble 
brow,  and  the  youth  addressed  Miss  Mandeville,  Julian 
La  Forge  had  reason  to  change  his  idea,  and  he  muttered 
to  himself: 

"  That  pauper  has  the  air  of  a  prince  I " 

Perhaps  there  was  just  visible  an  increase  of  color  in 
the  young  man's  face,  as  he  asked : 

"  Where  shall  I  deposit  my  bundle.  Miss  Mandeville  ? " 

"  If  you  will  not  walk  in  and  see  mamma,  I  will  take 
it,"  Fay  answered,  putting  forth  her  hands  to  receive  the' 
parcel, 

"  Thank  you.  No ;  I  will  place  it  on  the  hall  table, 
Miss  Mandeville,"  the  youth  replied;  and  in  a  gentle, 
dignified  manner,  stepped  into  the  hall,  deposited  his 
bundle,  returning  gracefully,  raised  his  hat  entirely  from 
his  head,  and  was  gone. 

"  Humph !  And  who  may  that  pauper  of  princely 
mien  be?"  asked  Julian. 

"  For  shame,  Julian  !  Although  you  do  not  '  tend  it, 
you  are  doing  William  Manly  something  like  ^  ^rice  by 
your  words.     He  is  a  noble  youth." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  not  one  of  your  promiscuous  acquaint- 
ances, but  a — " 

"There!  Good-afternoon,  Julian.  I  have  neither  the 
time  nor  mood  for  a  war  of  words." 

And  turning  away,  Fay  went  in,  and  her  lover  off, 
vowing  vengeance  against  William  Manly — for  what  he 
could  not  just  tell,  except  that  Fay  bad  received  him 
kindly. 


228  A    COSTLY    JOKE. 

Julian  La  Forge  loved  pretty  Fay  as  well  as  he  could 
love  anybody,  and  she  rather  liked  him ;  at  any  rate  she 
liked  no  one  better. 

He  was  declared  "  perfectly  charming"  by  all  the  girls 
of  Fay's  acquaintance,  and  somehow  she  had  begun  to 
think  she  ought  to  try  to  love  a  little,  one  who  loved  her 
so  well.  Julian  was  a  very  intelligent  and  smart  youth, 
and,  young  though  he  was,  held  the  position  of  book* 
keeper  in  the  large  establishment  of  Fairwell  &  Co. 

Julian  had  managed,  for  a  time,  to  gain  wonderfully  m. 
old  Mr.  Fairwell 's — Fay's  uncle — opinion ;  but  lately  soma 
traits  in  his  character  manifesting  themselves,  caused  the 
old  gentleman  to  watch  Julian  more  closely,  and  with  a 
suspicious  eye.  So,  when  the  growing  intimacy  between 
him  and  Fay  came  to  his  knowledge,  he  determined  to  end 
it — if  possible,  without  doing  any  injustice  to  the  young 
man.  Ho  could  not  discharge  him  without  a  good  cause. 
Then  came  the  idea  of  sending  Fay  away  to  school.  But 
■when  in  conference  with  her  mother  on  the  subject,  the 
"wise  parent  said : 

*'  It  will  make  matters  worse.  Away  from  our  influence, 
with  the  idea  of  harsh  treatment  on  her  mind,  he  could 
have  a  better  chance  of  winning  her.  We  could  not  pre- 
vent his  writing  to  her.  Let  her  be,  and  trust  to  her  good 
sense  for  the  result." 

So  it  was  determined.  And  a  very  short  time  after 
proved  it  a  wise  decision. 

The  next  evening,  when  they  met  again,  Fay  made  no 
allusion  to  Julian's  ill-temper  the  afternoon  previous. 
But  he  did  not  wish  to  drop  the  subject,  and  when  they 
were  alone  he  asked : 

"  Now,  Fay,  will  you  tell  me  why  you  thought  it  neces- 
eary  to  treat  that  porter  fellow  with  so  much  courtesy,  and 
where  you  had  the  honor  of  forming  his  acquaintan<>e?" 


A    COSTLY    JOKE.  229 

"Although  not  acknowledging  your  right  to  question 
me,  I  will  answer.  My  manner  to  William  Manly  is  the 
result  of  his  own  worthiness.  He  is  not  a  porter,  although 
that  position  would  not  change  my  respect.  I  should 
honor  him  in  his  endeavors  to  win  a  support  for  his 
mother  and  himself. 

"  I  met  him  at  his  own  home.  His  mother  is  mamma's 
dress-maker,  and  we  think  her  rich  in  the  possession  of  so 
good  a  son,"  Fay  said,  looking  into  her  companion's  face 
with  an  expression  which  said  as  plain  as  words,  ''  Would 
there  were  more  like  him." 

"Ah,  indeed.  I  wonder,  possessing  such  an  exalted 
opinion  of  him,  you  do  not  seek  to  solicit  for  him  your 
uncle's  favor.  Perhaps  we  might  find  a  place  for  him.  I 
think  wc  need  another  runner  boy,"  Julian  said,  a  sneering 
expression  disfiguring  his  face. 

"  Thank  you.  I  believe  mamma  has  spoken,  or  intends 
Bpeaking,  to  uncle  on  the  subject.  But  young  Manly  may 
possibly  fill  another  and  more  responsible  position.  Ex- 
cuse me :  I  will  go  into  the  music  room.  I  think  it  will 
be  more  agreeable  than  here,"  Fay  said,  moving  off. 

Julian  ground  his  teeth  and  vowed  to  "  fix  that  pre- 
suming fool,"  as  he  called  William  Manly.  The  remain- 
der of  the  evening  he  spent  flirting  desperately  with  an 
"old  flame,"  and  grew  every  hour  more  wrathy  when  he 
saw  how  little  Fay  cared,  and  how  happy  she  seemed 
with  the  party  around  the  piano. 

Fay  Mandeville's  eyes  were  opened  that  night,  both  with 
regard  to  Julian's  unworthiness  and  her  own  feelings. 
She  knew  her  heart  was  very  slightly  affected,  and  re- 
solved to  let  Julian  know  it  without  further  delay. 

Returning  home,  Julian  apologized  for  his  ill-humor 
and  rudeness,  saying : 

*'  Forgive  me,  Fay ;  but  I  feel  anything  bu*-  pleasantly 


230  A    COSTLY    JOKE. 

toward  that  young  fellow,  for  you  remember  he  int^w 
rupted  me  at  a  very  important  moment.  I  was  begging 
for  your  picture." 

"Certainly,  Julian,  I  forgive  you." 

"And  for  my  desertion  this  evening  ?  Miss  Tracy  is  a 
very  old  friend  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  a  long  time. 
She  had  so  much  to  say  of  old  times." 

"  Oh,  that  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive.  Eleanore  Tracy 
is  a  lovely  girl,  and  I  hope  you  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to 
win  something  more  than  a  friendly  regard  from  her. 
You  have  my  best  wishes  for  your  happiness — " 

"  Fay,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  Julian  exclaimed,  inter- 
rupting her. 

"  That  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  return  your  friendship, 
Julian." 

"And  nothing  more?" 

"  Nothing  more,  Julian." 

They  had  reached  her  home.  He  would  have  said  more, 
much  more,  which  he  hoped  would  change  her  mood, 
but  the  door  opened,  and  her  uncle  stood  before  them. 

"  Good-night !  "  without  even  her  hand  extended.  And 
she  was  gone  from  his  sight ! 

Julian  related  the  whole  affair  to  a  friend  the  next  day, 
and  likewise  his  plan  to  "  fix  the  fellow." 

"  Better  not  attempt  it,  Jule.  It  is  a  dangerous  game.  If 
you  should  be  caught,  it  would  cost  you  dearly,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  I  will  do  it  1  It  is  impossible  being  discovered,"  an- 
swered Julian. 

"  Very  weU.  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  returned 
his  friend. 

The  next  day  a  sweet,  gentle  little  woman  sat  sewing 
beside  the  window,  watching  and  waiting  for  her  son's 
ooming.     Smiling,  she  said^ 


A    COSTLY    JOKE.  231 

"  Oh,  I  wish  he  would  come.  How  surprised  and  de- 
lighted he  will  be  !  My  dear,  good  boy  !  I  had  scarcely 
dared  hope  for  such  speedy  good  luck,  although  Mrs. 
Mandeville  promised  to  speak  for  him.  Ah,  here  he 
comes ! " 

Another  moment,  and  Mrs.  Manly's  arms  were  around 
her  son.  And  she  pushed  into  his  hand  the  letter  which  had 
given  her  fo  much  joy.     Quickly  opening  it,  William  read : 

"  My  Young  Friend — If  you  will  present  yourself  as 
soon  as  convenient  after  the  receipt  of  this,  to  Mr.  FairweU, 
he  will  find  some  position  for  you  in  his  establishment. 
"  Very  truly,  F.  Mandeville." 

"Oh,  how  kind!  And  are  we  not  two  of  the  happiest 
people  living  to-night,  little  mother?  Really  I  feel  like 
shouting  with  joy  !  "  the  good  son  said,  as  he  caught  his 
mother  -within  his  arms,  and  danced  her  round  the  room. 
And  when  almost  out  of  breath  he  placed  her  in  her  chair, 
sank  on  a  stool  at  her  feet,  and  said: 

"  Ko  more  working  those  dear  little  fingers  almost  off, 
nor  blinding  your  eyes  with  sewing  until  midnight.  No, 
indeed.  I  intend  your  eyes  shall  grow  bright  again.  Oh, 
mother,  I  feel  as  if  I  was  too  happy  for  it  to  last.  But 
now  we  must  work  a  little,  brushing  and  darning  my  coat. 
Faithful  old  companion,  I  will  put  you  on  the  retired  list 
before  long." 

And  so  the  happy  youth  worked  and  talked  until  his 
mother  sent  him,  with  kisses  and  blessings,  to  bed. 

The  next  morning  William  Manly  presented  himself  at 
Fairwell  &  Co.'s.  Tlie  old  gentleman  had  not  reached  the 
store.  William  felt  somewhat  embarrassed  while  waiting 
his  coming,  as  no  civility  was  tendered  him  by  any  one 
about. 

At  length — an  age  to  him — Mr.  Fairwell  came.  William 
approached  him.  saying: 


232  A    COSTLY    JOKE. 

"  I  am  William  Manly,  sir." 

The  old  gentleman  was  rather  brusque  always,  and  that 
morning  he  was  decidedly  cross.  Some  young  scamp  had 
played  him  an  April  trick,  and  he  was  not  feeling  any  the 
better  for  it.     So  in  reply  he  said  to  poor  William : 

"  Well,  sir,  what  is  that  to  me  ?  " 

A  half-suppressed  titter  was  heard,  and  William  has 
tened  to  say : 

"  I  am  here,  sir,  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  and  in 
answer  to  the  message  for  me  to  present  myself  to  you." 

"What  in  thunder  are  you  talking  about?  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it." 

Mortified  and  dreadfully  disappointed,  William  asked : 

"  Did  you  not  send  for  me,  sir  ?  " 

"No,  sir,"  snapped  the  old  man. 

"  Then  there  is  some  mistake.  Excuse  me,  sir,"  William 
eaid,  and  withdrew. 

How  he  reached  home  he  scarcely  knew,  and  with  his 
head  pillowed  on  his  mother's  shoulder,  he  told  of  his 
reception. 

"  Why  did  you  not  show  him  the  note  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  I  knew  not  from  which  it  came,  Miss  or  Mrs. 
Mandeville.  It  was  only  signed  by  the  initial  F  for  the 
first  name.  I  thought  possibly  the  young  lady  might, 
thinking  to  win  from  her  uncle  a  favorable  reception  of 
me,  have  anticipated  it  by  sending  the  note,  and  some- 
thing afterward  had  driven  it  from  her  mind,"  William 
answered. 

When  Mr.  Fairwell  returned  to  dinner  thai  day  he  told 
of  the  strange  action  of  young  Manly,  and  inquired  if  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Mandeville,  understood  what  it  meant.  She 
did  not.  But  a  very  grave  look  came  over  Fay's  bright 
fece.  and  she  said : 

"  Uncle.  I  believe  I  have  a  clue  to  iU    But  un*=«l  I  am 


A    COSTLY    JOKE.  233 

better  assured,  I  would  rather  not  tell  my  thoughts. 
When  you  come  home  to  tea  I  shall  know  more." 

Fay  told  her  mother  something  about  it,  and  an  hour 
after  they  were  on  their  way  to  Mrs.  Manly's.  Without 
hesitation  they  explained  the  object  of  their  visit  immedi- 
ately on  their  arrival.  The  poor  little  woman,  with  traces 
of  tears  still  on  her  face,  handed  them  the  letter  which 
had  brought  so  much  joy,  and  resulted  in  such  deep 
mortification. 

Fay  nodded  her  head  as  she  read.  Turning  to  Mrs. 
Manly,  and  placing  her  finger  on  the  paper,  she  re- 
marked : 

"  You  see  the  date,  April  1st.  It  is  as  I  thought.  Do 
not  feel  so  badly,  Mrs.  Manly.  I  trust  this  will  end  to 
our  perfect  satisfaction.     This  I  beg  leave  to  retain." 

That  evening  Fay  placed  the  forged  letter  in  her  uncle's 
hand.  After  looking  at  it  very  intently  for  a  few  moments, 
he  drew  from  his  pocket-book  a  little  slip  of  paper,  which 
placing  near,  he  compared  with  it,  and  said : 

"Just  so.  I  believe  we  are  both  on  the  same  track, 
Fay,  and  the  right  one,  too.  Now  tell  me  what  you 
think." 

Fay  did  as  he  desired,  and  after  hearing  her,  he  re- 
plied : 

"  Yes ;  it  is  just  so.  This  slip  of  paper  I  found  between 
the  leaves  of  the  ledger.  You  see,  on  it  are  written>  the 
eame  words  as  the  first  line  of  this  note.  Well,  I  must 
make  some  atonement  to  the  young  man  for  my  ill-humor 
this  morning." 

And  sitting  down,  the  old  gentleman  wrote  to  William 
Manly,  offering  him  a  position  in  his  establishment,  and 
enclosing  a  check  for  a  month's  pay  in  advance.  This  was 
immediately  sent  to  the  young  man. 

The  next  moroing  Mr.  Fairwell,  in  the  presence  of  those 


234  A    COSTLY    JOKE. 

clerks  who  had  witnessed  William  Manly's  discomfiture 
the  day  before,  said : 

"As  I  am  somewhat  responsible  for  what  is  done  here,  I 
feel  it  my  duty,  as  well  as  pleasure,  to  make  good  a 
promise  written  by  one  of  the  gentlemen  here  to  Mr. 
Manly.  As  Mr.  La  Forge  is  contemplating  just  now 
resigning  his  position,  I  think,  it  will  from  this  day  be 
filled  by  Mr.  Manly,  as  I  know  none  other  for  which  he 
is  so  well  suited." 

Scarcely  had  he  ceased  speaking  when  young  Manly, 
plainly  but  well  dressed,  entered. 

And  soon  after  Julian  La  Forge  managed  to  get  away, 
without  any  one  knowing  just  when.  Few,  if  any,  regrets 
followed  him ;  all  felt  he  well  merited  the  severe  lesson  he 
had  received. 

Two  years  have  passed  since  then.  Daily  Williami 
Manly  is  gaining  in  favor  with  his  employer.  Julian  sees 
him  not  only  occupying  his  position  in  the  establishment 
of  Fairwell  &  Co.,  but  hears  rumors  of  his  winning  another 
position  to  which  he  had  aspired.  Yes,  everywhere  he 
hears  that  it  is  likely,  before  many  months  more,  that 
William  Manly  will  be  connected  by  a  nearer  and  dearer 
tie,  to  Mr.  Fairwell,  He  believes  this,  for  he  met  Fay  a 
few  days  ago  leaning  on  his  arm,  looking  into  William's 
fe.ce  as  she  never  had  into  hia;  and  lie  cursed  the  day  that 
Ls  played  that  April  trick. 


WHO  STOLE  HIS  GOLD? 

BY  FRANCES  HENSHAW  BADEK. 

WHAT  became  of  Silas  Shaw's  money  was  a  subject 
that  had  agitated  the  community  of  W very 

much.  The  most  celebrated  detectives  had  worked  upon 
the  case  for  twelve  months,  yet  failed  to  throw  any  light 
upon  the  subject;  all  was  wrapped  in  mystery.  Not  a 
clue  was  found  to  work  upon.  It  was  only  known  that  on 
a  certain  day  during  the  dark  period  of  our  national 
struggle,  Silas  Shaw  had  drawn  from  the  bank,  in  gold, 
the  sum  of  twelve  thousand  dollars.  Silas  had  grown 
gloomy  as  regarded  the  termination  of  the  contest,  declar- 
ing that  "  if  the  old  flag  was  not  triumphant  he  should 
leave  the  country."  In  preparation  for  that  event  he  had 
secured  his  gold.  A  few  months  after  he  widely  declared 
his  money  stolen.  He  stated  having  buried  the  gold 
under  the  hearthstone,  in  a  certain  room  of  an  untenanted 
house  belonging  to  him — that  after  it  was  again  occupied, 
at  regular  intervals  he  watched  for  the  safety  of  hia 
treasure.  It  remained  where  he  had  put  it  until  a  fort- 
night after  the  house  was  again  vacant,  when,  going  one 
day  to  see  that  all  was  right,  he  found  the  bricks  thrown 
aside,  the  mortar  scattered  around,  and  the  gold  all  gone. 

This  statement  was  somewhat  substantiated  by  the  ten- 
ants, who  told  of  being  very  much  annoyed  by  the  frequent 
visits  of  Mr.  Shaw  to  satisfy  himself  respecting  the  safety 
of  the  flues,  he  said.    Believing  something  more  than  ha 

(235) 


236  WHO    STOLE    HIS    GOLD? 

Baid  caused  his  visits,  which  to  them  seemed  very  mys- 
terious, they  determined  to  find  another  house,  and  did 
BO ;  thus  giving  their  landlord  the  opportunity  of  inspect- 
ing the  flues  to  his  perfect  satisfaction, 

Shaw  hinted  his  distrust  of  these  people ;  but  to  nothing 
by  which  to  fix  a  well-grounded  suspicion  could  he  point. 
Shaw  was  never  a  very  agreeable  person,  and  generally  he 
was  disliked.  After  his  loss,  he  grew  so  very  gloomy  and 
irritable  that  people  avoided  him  everywhere. 

There  was,  however,  one  redeeming  point  about  him: 
his  love  for  Mira,  his  daughter  and  only  child.  Hitherto, 
for  her  sake,  he  had  tolerated  Reginald  Harland,  a  young 
man  truly  worthy  of  Mira's  love,  and  of  whom  even  her 
father  could  find  but  one  fault,  which  in  his  eyes  became 
a  crime — Reginald's  poverty. 

After  the  loss  of  his  gold,  Silas  declared  himself  a 
pauper,  and  telling  Mira  she  must  send  her  lover  off,  told 
Reginald  himself  to  go. 

"  We  are  all  paupers  now,"  he  said ;  "  and  paupers  must 
think  of  something  other  than  love-making." 

Reginald  pleaded  earnestly  with  Mira  to  fly  with  him. 
Bravely  she  resisted. 

"  Nay,  nay,  Reginald  ;  I  can  never  desert  him  during  his 
trouble.  I  must  come  to  you  meriting  blessings,  not 
dreading  the  curse  of  disobedience  and  ingratitude,"  she 
said. 

"  Mira,  I  am  going  to  make  one  more  appeal.  Possibly 
I  may  touch  his  heart,"  Reginald  said. 

And  starting  right  ofl",  he  sought  Silas  Shaw,  and 
pleaded  earnestly  and  long  for  permission  to  wed  hia 
child. 

"Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  to  change  your  mind? 
Bpeak !    Tell  me  what  you  demand !  "  Reginald  asked. 

With  a  mocking  laugh,  Silas  answered : 


WHO    STOLE    HIS    GOLD?  237 

"  Yes ;  find  my  gold,  or  the  one  who  stole  it,  and  I  will 
give  you  my  child !  " 

With  a  disappointed  look,  Reginald  turned  away,  saying : 

"  I  find  what  men  have  failed  to  do — men  whose 
thoughts  and  energy  are  given  entirely  to  such  work? 
You  mock  me,  sir." 

"  Find  my  gold,  and  you'll  find  your  bride ! "  hissed 
SUas. 

"  I  will  work  for  gold,  as  much,  and  bring  you,"  urged 
Reginald. 

"  No ;  I  want  only  my  own  gold.  Find  that,  if  you  wish 
my  child." 

Reginald  could  not  go  and  tell  Mira  of  his  failure.  Dis- 
heartened, he  sought  his  home.  With  his  head  bowed  on 
his  hands,  he  sat  and  reviewed,  over  and  over,  the  same 
ground  so  many  had  gone  before,  weighing  every  little 
point,  every  word  he  had  heard  of  the  mysterious  afiair, 
but  as  vainly  as  others.  No  light  shone  in  on  the  dark-» 
ness. 

"  'Tis  useless,"  he  said.  "  I  will  not  attempt  it,  lest  1 
become  as  mad  as  Silas  Shaw  himself.  For  mad  he  surely 
is,  or  he  would  not  try  me  thus." 

Then  Mira's  beautiful  face  and  tearful  eyes  rose  up 
before  him,  and  again  his  brain  began  to  work. 

"  Only  in  Heaven  it  is  known,  and  there,  I  fear,  it  must 
remain,"  he  said,  sadly,  "  unless  some  angel  voice  should 
whisper  it  to  me." 

Hours  passed,  and  still  he  sat.  All  darkness — no  light 
breaking  in  yet.  Starting  up,  he  threw  off  his  coat,  and 
dropped,  heart-sick  and  weary,  on  his  bed,  exclaiming : 

"I  shall  strive  no  more.  My  brain  is  burning  with 
fever  now." 

A  few  moments,  and  he  might  have  fallen  into  a  little 
doze,  from  which  he  started,  and  cried  out; 


238  WHO    STOLE    HIS    GOLD? 

"I  have  it!  I  have  it!" 

Had  some  angel  spirit — his  mother,  perchance — ^whia« 
pered  in  his  ear,  revealing  the  long-hidden  secret  ?  Perhaps 
he  felt  so. 

Seeking  SUas  Shaw  early  the  next  day,  Reginald  said : 

"  Mr.  Shaw,  I  accept  your  terms.  I  helieve  I  have  a  clue 
by  which  I  shall  find  the  thief;  probably  your  gold.  That 
I  may  perfect  my  plan  of  detection,  I  beg  that  you  will 
permit  me  to  become  an  inmate  of  this  house  for  a  few 
nights,  say  a  week.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  if  I  do  not 
solve  this  mystery,  I  shall  give  it  up." 

Again  the  old  mocking  laugh  from  Silas,  and  he  said 
angrily : 

"  I  understand  you.     You  want  to  rob  me  of  my  child ! " 

"  Send  her  away,  to  remain  during  the  time  I  shall  be 
here,  if  you  have  no  confidence  in  me." 

"  I  wi^Z,"  said  Silas ;  adding,  "  Tell  me  what  you  wish  to 
come  here  for  ?  " 

"Because  I  believe  the  thief  is  intimately  acquainted 
here;  aye,  perhaps  a  member  of  your  household.  You 
may,  if  you  choose,  let  it  be  thought  you  have  more  money 
or  valuables  about  your  premises,  and  I  shall  watch  the 
result." 

Silas  agreed,  and  Reginald  that  night  occupied  the  room 
adjoining  the  old  man's. 

Three  nights  passed  without  bringing  him  any  more 
light  upon  the  subject.  Twice  during  his  midnight 
■watches  he  stole  to  the  door  of  Silas'  room,  attracted  by  a 
stealthy  step  within,  to  see  only  the  old  man  moving 
about — he,  perhaps,  anxious  and  watchful  too. 

The  fourth  night,  exhausted  from  the  loss  of  rest  and 
great  excitement,  Reginald  dropped  upon  a  couch,  and 
Boon  after  fell  into  a  restless,  uneasy  slumber,  from  which 
he  would  start*  and  s&ze  wildly  around.    Manv  times  he 


WHO    STOLE    HIS    GOLD?  239 

did  this,  until  at  length  there  came  something  to  rivet  his 
eager  eyes  upon. 

Stealing  noiselessly  through  his  room,  by  the  dimly 
burning  taper  he  beheld  a  man,  bearing  a  small  lamp. 
He  approached,  opened  the  door,  and  passed  out  into  the 
hall. 

Up  and  after  him,  with  a  step  as  noiseless,  stole  Reginald. 
Through  the  long  passages,  down  flight  after  flight  of  steps, 
into  the  very  depths  they  went. 

Carefully  placing  his  lamp  on  the  cellar  floor,  the  man 
turned,  and  *Men  for  the  first  time  his  features  were 
revealed  to  Reginald.    They  were  not  unknown. 

Drawing  from  a  hiding-place  a  small  step-ladder,  the 
man  approached  the  centre  of  the  room,  where  Reginald 
beheld  a  cistern,  over  into  which  the  man,  dropping  his 
ladder  and  again  securing  his  lamp,  descended  slowly  and 
cautiously.  After  him  Reginald  crept  unnoticed.  The 
place  was  dry,  as  he  suspected.  The  lamp  again  placed 
on  the  floor,  and  something  like  a  small  pick  drawn  forth, 
the  man  went  to  work.  A  few  bricks  were  removed,  and 
pushing  aside  the  dust,  he  drew  out  the  long  lost  gold. 
Reginald  knew  it  was,  even  before  the  box  was  opened. 
A  moment  after  his  eyes  beheld  his  triumph.  Mira  was 
his.    Then  was  the  moment  for  action. 

With  a  smart  tap  on  the  man's  shoulder,  he  said : 

"  ]\Ir.  Shaw,  awake !     Here  is  your  gold." 

The  somnambulist  turned,  gazed  wildly  on  Reginald, 
who  pointed  to  the  box  of  gold,  and  repeated : 

"  There  is  your  long  lost  gold,  Mr.  Shaw ! " 

The  old  man  was  awake,  his  eyes  gazing  eagerly  on  his 
treasure.  He  knew  all  then,  and  in  his  great  joy  sank,  as 
Reginald  feared,  dying,  on  the  cistern  floor. 

Gently  raising,  he  bore  him  out  and  up,  retracing  his 
steps  through  the  long  halls  to  his  own  room. 


240  WHO     STOLE    HIS    GOLD? 

After  applying  restoratives,  Reginald  was  rewarded  by 
eeeing  signs  of  consciousness  appearing.  A  little  longer, 
and  Silas  whispered : 

"Is  it  true?" 

In  answer  Reginald  sped  swiftly  thence,  descending 
again  to  the  cellar ;  and  in  a  few  moments  more  re-entered 
the  room,  and  placed  beside  the  old  man  his  box  of  gold. 

"Mira  is  yours,  and  this  her  dowry,"  the  old  man 
whispered. 

And  Reginald,  as  he  clasped  the  trembling  hand  to 
express  his  joy  and  thanks,  noticed  the  old  look  of  bitter- 
ness and  suspicion  was  gone.  Silas  Shaw  smiled,  probably 
the  first  time  for  many  long  months,  perhapo  years,  as  ho 
eaid: 

"  I  wish  Mira  was  here  now." 

Thus  Reginald  Harland  won  his  love.  And  thus  it  was 
that  the  mystery  which  had  so  long  agitated  the  minds  of 
BO  many  was  discovered,  and  the  oft-repeated  query, 
*  Who  stole  Shaw's  gold  ?  "  was  heard  no  more. 


MARY'S  GHOST. 

BY      FRANCES      HENSHAW      BADEN. 

/^OME    here,   Grace,   my   darling,    my    little  woman 

v^  child!  Put  baby  down,  and  come  close.  I  want 
to  have  a  long  talk  with  you  before  father  returns,"  said  a 
low,  feeble  voice. 

The  little  maiden,  with  mother-like  tenderness,  laid  the 
sleeping  babe  in  the  crib,  and  then  sank  on  a  low  stool 
beside  the  arm-chair  of  the  speaker,  a  pale,  gentle-looking 
woman,  whose  emaciated  form  told  plainly  of  lingering 
and  painful  disease. 

"  My  little  comforter  !  What  could  I  do  without  you  ? 
"Who  trust  so  implicitly  with  my  babes  as  their  sister  ?  I 
know  how  faithfully,  how  lovingly  you  will  take  care  of 
them  when  I  am  away." 

"Mother,  mother!  don't  talk  bo  I  "  sobbed  the  child. 
**  Don't  talk  of  leaving  us  ! " 

"Darling,  I  do  not  mean  what  you  fear.  No,  love  ;  I 
have  strong  hope  of  living  now,  and  getting  well,  perhaps. 
I've  not  spoken  to  you  before,  waiting  until  I  had  deter- 
mined upon  what  I  thought  best.  The  doctor  advises, 
and  almost  insists,  that  I  shall  go  to  London,  to  the 
hospital.  He  feels  quite  confident  I  can  be  treated  there, 
with  a  better  chance  of  success.  So,  daughter,  that  I  may 
the  sooner  be  able  to  attend  to  my  loved  ones,  I  have  con- 
sented to  go.     To-morrow  is  the  day  fixed  for  my  leaving^ 

(241) 


242  MARY'S    GHOST. 

Nay,  lore,  do  not  cry  so,  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  up 
heart." 

The  little  girl  choked  down  the  sobs,  and  whispered : 

"  Tell  me  all,  mamma ;  I  won't  cry  any  more.  But,  oh  I 
why  can't  you  get  well  at  home  ?  " 

"  Daughter,  before  I  grew  ill,  it  was  a  hard  struggle  for 
your  father  to  provide  for  us ;  now  the  burden  is  greater 
than  he  can  bear  very  long.  I  require  many  things  to 
give  me  strength,  that  he  cannot  obtain.  This  grieves  him, 
I  know.     And  what  a  trouble  I  am  to  you,  love !  " 

*'  No,  no,  no,  mother !  I  will  work  harder  to  get  you 
comfopts ;  I  will  take  care  of  the  babies  and  you  too.  If 
mother  is  only  here  for  me  to  see,  to  speak  to  ns,  to  smile 
on  us  children — "  The  tears  were  coming  again,  her  lipa 
quivered,  and  poor  little  Grace  dropped  her  head  in  her 
mother's  lap. 

"  There,  little  love,  have  a  good  cry,  and  you  will  feel 
better,  and  stronger  too.  I  would  sooner  have  you  do  so 
than  see  you  strugghng  so  hard  to  be  calm,  my  brave  little 
woman!  There,  keep  your  head  so,  and  I  will  talk  to 
you.  I  know  how  willingly  you  do  and  would  ever  work 
for  me.  But  your  strength  would  fail  before  long,  and 
then  what  would  we  do?  the  babies  particularly?  No, 
darling,  you  can  do  more  and  better  for  them  when  some 
one  else  is  taking  care  of  me.  But  I  will  come  homo 
again,  I  trust;  I  believe  I  shall.  But  if — if  it  pleases  God 
that  I  should  not,  my  babies  will  not  miss  me.  You  v/ill 
be  everything  to  them.  And,  Grace — now  look  into  my 
eyes,  dear! — that  your  father  may  not  want  to  fill  my 
place,  deal  gently  with  him.  Have  things  comfortable 
when  he  comes  home  at  night.  Humor  bim,  as  I  have 
done ;  make  home  pleasant.  He  is  cross  sometimes,  and 
rough  often,  and  it  is  hard  for  my  little  gentle  Grace  to  see 
him  so.    But  he  has  a  good  heart,  and  loves  us  truly. 


MARY*S     GHOST.  24S 

So  you  must  always  remember  this.  How  much  I  am 
putting  on  a  little  girl  twelve  years  old!  Hush,  her© 
comes  father  home !     I  hear  Georgie's  merry  laugh." 

Grace  quickly  dried  her  eyes,  and  a  few  moments  after^ 
her  father,  Maurice  Ready,  came  in. 

Well  might  the  neighbors  marvel  that  the  burly,  good- 
natured,  but  very  rough  man  should  have  won  such  9- 
pretty,  refined  woman  as  his  wife.  It  truly  was  a  mystery. 
It  was  only  known  that  she  was  an  orphan,  left  dependent 
on  her  father's  brother,  whose  family  did  not  seek  to  make* 
the  poor  girl  happy. 

The  day  of  parting  came.  Bravely  little  Grace  bore  up. 
She  would  not  add  to  her  mother's  sorrow  by  even  a  look 
of  sadness.  So,  forcing  to  her  pale  lips  a  smile,  the  cost  of 
which  the  mother  knew  so  well,  she  said : 

"  Try  to  get  well,  soon,  mother,  and  come  back  to  us 
looking  like  you  used  to," 

"  I  mil  come  back  to  my  darling,  to  take  care  of  you 
again.     I  will,  with  God's  permission." 

Another  besides  the  husband  and  children  heard  the 
mother's  promise,  and,  as  the  carriage  drove  off,  she  said : 

"  Sure,  it's  never  come  back  will  ye,  unless  it's  from  the 
other  world ! " 

This  was  Judith  O'Riley,  Mary  Ready's  next  neighbor. 
She  was  noisy,  and  very  coarse  in  look  and  manner. 
Mary  always  shrank  from  her,  offering  no  encouragement 
to  Judith's  frequent  attempts  to  be  "  sociable,"  as  she  said. 
But  Maurice  rather  liked  her,  and  would  sometimes 
remonstrate  with  Mary,  and  say : 

"  Of  course  she's  not  like  you,  Mary.  But  it's  a  warm 
heart  she  has,  and  seems  fond  of  the  children." 

Maurice  returned  at  night,  telling  Grace  of  the  comforts 
her  mother  was  surrounded  with,  and  bringing  many 
messages  from  her  to  cheer  her  darling's  heart. 


244  MARY'S    GHOST. 

Everything  was  done  to  please  her  father.  Mother  was 
not  missed  at  supper,  for  many  weeks  hod  passed  since 
she  was  with  them  at  any  meal.  But  oh,  the  dreary  even- 
ing! Always,  after  the  day's  work  was  done,  all  went  up 
to  "  mother's  room,"  and  she  would  try  to  make  the  even- 
ing cheerful.  Baby  Katy  was  only  eight  months  old,  and 
loved  Grace,  and  only  cared  for  her.  But  Georgie,  bright, 
laughing  little  fellow,  all  that  day  he  had  wandered  about, 
calling  "  Mamma,"  and  saying : 

"Gracie,  me  wants  mamma — where  mamma?  Me 
wants  mamma  so  bad."  Refusing  to  be  comforted  he 
cried  himself  to  sleep  in  mother's  chair. 

Grace,  hke  her  mother,  was  a  delicate,  refined  little 
creature,  with  a  sweet,  thoughtful  look  in  her  Wue  eyes 
which  told  of  care  over-much  for  so  young  a  child.  Mau- 
rice was  proud  of  his  "  little  woman,"  as  he  spoke  of  her, 
and  he  had  cause  to  be.  Few  brighter  girls  could  be 
found  anywhere.  Apt  at  her  studies,  though  only  two 
years  at  school,  and  with  her  mother's  help  afterward, 
she  had  a  general  knowledge  of  all  the  most  requisite 
branches  of  instruction.  She  had  wonderful  skill  in  mak- 
ing various  little  fanc}'  articles — flowers  of  hair,  and  sheila. 
She  obtained  ready  sale  for  them,  the  proceeds  of  which 
she  expended  in  delicacies  for  her  mother  and  pretty 
clothes  for  her  babies.  Yes,  Grace  was  a  prodigy,  her 
father  thought,  and  others  thought  so  too.  Often  he 
regretted  his  poverty,  particularly  on  Grace's  account. 
Weekly  Maurice  went  up  to  town,  and  returned  bringing 
encouraging  accounts  of  Mary's  improving  health.  She 
had  been  away  about  two  months  when  the  babies  were 
taken  sick  with  the  measles.  So  Maurice  thought  it 
better  not  to  go  that  week,  but  wait  until  he  could  carry 
better  news  from  home. 

The  little  ones  soon  were  well,  and  ag8i«i  their  father 
■went  with  loving  messages  to  mamma. 


MARY'S    GHOST.  245 

"  Oh !  if  you  could  bring  mother  home  this  time !  May- 
be she  will  be  well  enough,"  said  Grace,  following  him  to 
the  door,  her  little  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  raised,  prayer- 
ful, hopeful,  expectant. 

How  busy  she  was  all  day,  getting  the  house  tidy,  fixing 
up  some  little  delicacies  for  supper,  and  finishing  some 
ehell-work ! 

Getting  a  friend  to  stay  with  her  babies,  she  hurried 
out,  disposed  of  her  work,  and  soon  returned  with  a  pair 
of  red  shoes  for  Katy.  The  crowning  JHe  of  the  evening 
was  to  be  baby  in  short  clothes,  trying  to  step. 

"  How  delighted  mother  will  be  to  see  her  little  ones  so 
well,  and  Katy's  attempts  to  walk ! "  the  little  girl  said 
to  herself,  waiting  and  watching,  her  ears  strained  to 
catch  the  first  sound  which  would  tell  of  her  father's 
coming. 

At  length,  far  down  the  sidewalk,  she  hears  the  well- 
known  step.  The  hopeful  light  dies  quickly  out  of  the 
blue  eyes,  and  a  look  of  resignation  comes  instead.  She 
listened.  The  steps  are  heavier,  slower.  A  great  dread 
enters  her  heart.  She  cannot  hasten  forward  to  welcome 
him.  She  hears  the  door  close,  and  the  slow,  heavy  tread 
draw  near. 
"  Grace  1 " 

Her  eyes  were  raised  to  his.  She  could  not  speak  to 
answer.  No  words  were  needed  to  tell  the  sad  tidings. 
She  knew  all.     She  had  read  it  in  his  face. 

Stifling  the  cry  which  arose  to  her  lips,  she  whispered, 
pointing  to  little  Georgie : 
"  Don't  let  him  know." 

The  pale  face  grew  paler.    Yet  no  sigh  escaped  her  lips 
until  her  babies  were  sleeping,  and  then  her  fortitude  was 
over. 
"Tell  me.  father  1 "  she  moaned. 


246  maey's   ghost. 

"  Five  days  ago,  suddenly.  They  took  me  to  her  grave," 
was  all  that  Grace  could  get  from  him. 

"  Motherless !  "  she  sobbed.  Then  remembering  the 
words,  "Take  care  of  my  babies,"  she  went  about  her 
work,  doing  her  mother's  bidding. 

The  next  morning  she  said  : 

"  Father,  you  know  my  name  is  Mary  Grace.  Call  me 
by  my  mother's  name  now,  and  I  will  try  to  grow  like 
her,  and  comfort  you  as  best  I  can." 

Maurice  mourned  sincerely  his  wife's  death.  Grief 
softened  his  nature  very  much,  and  Grace  grew  to  love 
him  more  than  she  had  ever  before. 

Friends  were  very  kind  to  tht?  motheriess  children,  none 
more  so  than  Judith  O'Riley.  she  helped  Grace  with  the 
drudgery  of  housekeeping,  saying: 

"  You're  not  strong  enough  to  do,  and  your  father  not 
able  to  pay  for  the  doing  of  it,  and  it's  meself  that  has 
a  plenty  of  time,  and  no  one  to  do  for  but  meself." 

Grace  began  to  think  her  dislike  to  Judith  was  unjust, 
and  she  was  very  grateful  for  her  help. 

Six  months  passed  by,  Grace  working  on,  growmg 
thinner  and  paler  daily — not  from  the  hard  work,  but  a 
terrible  fear  was  over  her :  mother's  place  was  likely  to  be 
given  to  another. 

Judith  had  managed  skilfully.  She  told  Maurice  how 
badly  Grace  was  looking,  saying : 

"  Oh,  it's  a  burden  too  much  upon  her  young  shoulders. 
Ye  should  be  looking  to  it,  Maurice,  or  she'll  not  live  to 
comfort  ye  long,  sure !  It's  a  mother  she  needs  herself, 
sure,  the  puny  little  dear  I  And  yerself's  looking  badly, 
Maurice.  Sure  it's  a  lonely  life  ve're  living.  Ye  aU  want 
taking  care  of,  sure  i*- 

Judith  had  certainly  attacked  Maurice  in  his  most  sen« 
sitive  point — Grace.    The  victpry_was  hey- 


mart's  ghost.  247 

"Will  you  come  take  care  of  us,  Judy  ?  "  he  asked. 

A.  few  days  more,  and  Grace  was  no  longer  mistress  of 
her  father's  home.  And  yet  a  few  more,  and  the  scales 
fell  from  Maurice  Ready's  eyes. 

The  quiet,  peaceful  little  home  became  one  of  continual 
complaints,  quarrels,  and  threats. 

Grace  no  longer  had  time  for  her  pretty  fancy  work,  the 
materials  for  which  she  had  to  hide  away,  for  fear  of 
Judith's  destroying  them. 

"  It's  all  nonsense  for  ye  to  be  spending  your  time  with 
the  likes  of  that!  Do  ye  suppose  111  be  working  and 
washing  for  ye  and  the  brats,  while  ye  play  the  lady, 
sure?" 

And  so  the  babies  wore  out  their  pretty  shoes.  Maurice 
was  unable  to  buy  more,  and  Grace  saw  her  darling's 
little  toes  peeping  out.  Georgie's  merry  laugh  was 
hushed,  and  into  Katy's  bright  eyes  came  a  frightened 
look  that  lingered  there.  Often  Grace's  slender  form 
Bhielded  her,  and  received  blows  intended  for  her  babe. 
Maurice  at  first  interfered,  but  he  was  silenced  completely. 

Poor  Maurice!  how  bitterly  he  bewailed  his  mistake! 
and  thought  sometimes  he  must  have  the  nightmare, 
from  which  he  should  surely  die,  if  he  was  not  awakened. 

People  saw  his  misery,  and  asked  what  it  was  that 
Maurice  was  afraid  of — Judy's  tongue  or  fists. 

Once,  when  the  dreadful  woman's  marks  were  plainly 
seen  on  Grace's  thin  face,  Maurice  summoned  up  courage 
to  say: 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be  afraid  of  Mary's  coming 
from  heaven  to  haunt  you  for  treating  her  children  so." 

This,  for  a  little  while,  subdued  Judy,  who  was  terribly 
afraid  of  ghosts ;  and  remembering  Mary's  parting  words, 
Bhe  shuddered  a  little.  But  in  time  the  fear  grew  less, 
and  she  began  her  tyranny  u-"^ 


248  MARY'S    GHOST. 

Grace  came  in  one  afternoon  and  found  Georgie  tied  in 
a  chair,  hand  and  foot,  while  Judith  stood  over  him  wnh  a 
pair  of  scissors,  about  cutting  off  his  curls.  The  little 
fellow  was  begging  and  crying. 

Grace  sprang  forward,  her  heart  almost  bursting  with 
indignation.  She  seized  the  scissors,  threw  them  into  th^ 
burning  grate,  and  exclaimed : 

"  You  shall  not  cut  off  his  curls  I  Mother  loved  them 
and  you  mustn't  touch  them  again.  Untie  Georgie.  Sc 
his  dear  little  wrists,  all  bruised  and  swollen !  Oh,  yor 
wicked  woman !  Surely  God  won't  let  you  stay  here  to 
treat  my  babies  so ! " 

Grace  said  no  more.  She  knew  no  more.  A  heavy 
blow  sent  her  reeling  senseless  to  the  floor.  When  she 
recovered,  she  found  herself  locked  up  in  a  small  room 
used  for  lumber.  She  cared  not  for  herself,  brave  Httle 
woman — only  thought  of  Georgie  and  the  baby,  and 
prayed  for  their  deliverance. 

It  was  a  sickening  sight  to  Maurice,  when  he  came  home 
and  found  baby  Katie,  wailing  and  crying  for  Grace, 
seated  in  a  corner,  and  fearing  to  come  at  his  bidding. 

"  Where  are  Grace  and  Georgie  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Where  I  put  them,  and  where  they'll  stay,  sure,  until 
they  learn  better  manners." 

"  Oh,  Mary,  why  did  you  die  ?  "  Maurice  moaned.  "  Why 
did  I  ever  give  your  place  to  another?  Oh,  Mary,  if  you 
only  could  come  back  to  us ! " 

"  Here  I  am,  Maurice !  " 

The  door  opened.  A  form  glided  in — a  woman's. 
Judith  heard  the  sound  and  turned.  In  the  dim  twilight 
she  beheld  Mary  Ready !  With  a  shriek  of  terror,  she 
fled  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  crying : 

"Oh,  Maurice,  save  me!  It's  her  ghost!  Go  back, 
Mary  1    111  never  ill-treat  the  children  more !    Here's  tho 


Mary's  ghost.  249 

key.    Grace  is  in  the  lumber-room  and  Georgie  in  tli« 
closet.    Oh,  bad  luck  will  come  to  me  for  iver  now ! " 

"  Go,  Maurice,  bring  Grace  to  me.  Tell  her  first,  that 
ehe  may  not  be  frightened.  And  Georgie;  find  him. 
Now,  Judith,  look  on  me.  You  see  I'm  flesh  and  blood — • 
not  a  ghost,  as  you  suppose,  thank  Heaven !  but  a  wife 
returned  to  her  husband,  a  mother  to  her  children.  What 
jae  you  doing  here  ?  and  why  are  my  darlings  locked  up  ?  '* 

^^He^ll  tell  ye  all,  and  more  too,  I'm  sure,"  moaned 
Judith. 

"  Mother  I  mother ! "  came  the  cry,  and  Grace  fainted  in 
her  mother's  arms.  Georgie  clung  about  her  skirt,  caress- 
ing her  hands,  and  with  alternate  words  of  love  for 
mamma,  complaints  of  and  threats  for  Judith. 

"  Go !  "  said  Maurice.  "  Go !  I  wish  you  were  a  man, 
that  I  could  send  you  forth  with  blows  and  kicks  1  " 

"Maurice,  she  is  crushed  enough.  Be  satisfied,"  said 
Mary. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  bad  she  is  I  Go !  Never  let 
me  see  your  face  again,"  continued  Maurice,  following  her 
to  the  door. 

But  she  did  not  linger  to  hear  his  words.  She  left  the 
house,  and  the  next  day,  England  forever. 

When  Grace  had  been  restored  to  consciousness,  Mary 
explained  to  them  the  cause  of  her  supposed  death.  A 
few  days  previous  to  Maurice's  last  visit,  a  new  patient 
was  brought  to  the  hospital.  Mary,  having  improved  so 
much  in  health  and  strength,  was  removed  to  the  con- 
valescing ward,  and  her  bed  given  to  the  other  patient, 
sufiering  with  the  same  disease.  The  same  day  a  new 
attendant  was  placed  in  charge.  In  the  hurry  of  preparing 
Mary's  bed  for  the  new-comer,  they  neglected  to  remove 
the  card  bearing  Mary's  name.  The  former  attendant  left 
immediately  after,  and  her  successor  arrived  about  the 
mm.e  timp'  that  the  sick  woman  was  put  in  Mary's  place. 


250  MARY'S     GHOST. 

"When  the  disease,  taking  an  unfavorable  turn,  resulted 
in  the  death  of  the  sufferer  a  few  days  aft,er,  the  attendant 
quite  naturally  believed  her  to  be  Mary  Ready,  and  when 
Maurice  came,  she  gave  him  the  particulars  of  his  wife's 
death,  and  went  with  him  to  her  grave.* 

Mary  of  course  knowing  nothing  of  this  mistake,  grew 
very  anxious  when  the  weeks  passed  and  Maurice  cam€ 
not,  and  no  tidings  reached  her  from  home. 

Worrying  so  much,  she  grew  worse  again,  sank  into  a 
nervous  fever,  and  finally  entirely  lost  her  mind,  and 
remained  tlius  for  many  weeks.  But  at  length,  contrary 
to  all  belief,  she  again  rallied,  gained  strength,  and  at  last 
her  mind  was  restored.  Then  she  learned  the  truth.  She 
determined  not  to  write  and  explain  the  mistake,  but  wait 
until  she  was  well  enough  to  return  to  her  loved  ones. 
She  had  not  heard  of  her  husband's  marriage  until  she 
arrived  in  the  village. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  mamma,  how  I  prayed  for  deliverance 
from  our  misery !  But  I  never  dreamed  of  such  happiness 
as  this  again,"  said  Grace. 

And  her  mother,  pressing  her  to  her  heart,  answered: 

"  Yes,  love,  now  I  am  well  again,  my  good  child's  cares 
will  be  less,  and  her  happiness  greater,  I  trust.  I  know  1 
for  God  has  always  bountifully  blessed  loving,  dutiful 
children." 

*Thi8  occurrence  actually  happened  in  one  of  the  London  hospitois 
dnring  the  past  year. 


126  859 


